He has been worse. He is not yet better, but there have been lower lows than this. Recovery has progressed, bit by bit, and now Tiernan is at the point where it is an effort to stay in bed, to not exert himself, to relax. It has made him cranky, though he has worked much of that out on paper; a dozen different ideas and designs begun, stacked neatly on the table by the bed.
     He has researched and read, wept and screamed and cursed as if his bones were still broken and being set (though for all that, when they were doing that to him, he was pale and silent and grim through the pain) and finally, shuddering, set materials aside. Only to begin anew once the pain in his heart began to recede. He has inflicted this on himself over and over again, trying to find some sense in it.
     At that, he has failed.
     Now the sun is sinking in the sky, painting the watery view with reds and golds that sink to orange and purple, glorious colours which never have amply been captured on any canvas or silk to match the original. Tiernan is propped up with pillows, and papers and books are piled on the pillow next to his. His eyes are closed, though he does not sleep. He has not bothered to put on a shirt after bathing today; his ribs are wrapped in bandages still, though fewer than previously. His left arm is still in a sling, and he is barefoot, though he wears dun-colored trousers of some loose, medium thickness of fabric.
     He is pale from lack of exposure, but he is on the mend. Or so they say...

     Dear Io,      I apologize for the brevity of my last letter. I was rushed; which is no excuse. Currently I am trying to write this one handed and the damned paper keeps sliding all over the place, and I'd kill for something as prosaic as a clipboard. My left arm's still there, just not working quite as well for a little while.      I imagine you will have many questions for me, and I'll try to give reasonably good answers. I apologize also for stuffing your pockets - you may've found the materials by now. We were running out of pack room and out of time as well - I knew you would keep them safe and it was a decision made in haste. Hopefully there'll be time for me to repent at leisure.      I am repenting for a number of things right now. I am not going to pour my emotions into this paper as I usually do; it hasn't done anything to deserve that fate. I am looking forward to when I can talk to you again. I miss you. We have a lot to talk about - I just can't even begin to sort my thoughts out, forgive me. When I am well enough, I will travel to see you, and then you can kick my arse down the stairs again if you want.      - T.

     It has been a week in the making, but the ships did finally arrive. Five in all, they carried their royal retinue from what once was the furthest edge of the entire kingdoms' territory but now the middle of the sea to the bay of the Kingdom of the Flowering Tree. The ships did not anchor in the bay but rather commandeered a healthy portion of the pierage, docking and anchoring, tied off at the stocks. One ship was familiar to those here. One ship of all that host caused a sudden and profound stir. The Draigamor has returned, and with it the person of the High King himself.
     It was an impressive landing made only more impressive by the appearance and efficiency of the royal guard and by the gifts brought from the many kingdoms that people his own that they carried in a train to the castle. What a marvelous train. Befitting a great high king, it comes in splendor. The High King himself is stopped several times along the way and always, and patiently, he replies to them.
     While the commotion may not be heard in all sections of the castle, certainly the energy can be felt throughout. Servants that tended you are called away. The doctor who comes in to check on your arm seems flustered and in a hurry -- the arm is still attached? Good. Feeling any pain? Yes? Take this. Must go! -- and then there is an eerie quiet. Like everyone is stopping and bowing at the same time.
     The quiet begins to fade away, dissolving into the sound of approaching steps. These steps are not in any sort of hurry, but there is more than one person. Is the doctor bringing the surgeon in to confer on your care?
     The door opens. You might well have expected to see any number of people appear in the doorway -- the doctor, surgeon, nurse, servant, Agapios. The list is long and none of the names on it would have belonged to the man who is entering.
     For all the commotion he has caused, his steps, his appearance, his entry is quiet, serene. Iowerth Rhudd Draig, the High King of all the dreaming Kingdoms and all the islands of all the oceans therein stands in the doorway, flanked by splendid guards.
     He himself is splendid, quite literally. Clothed all in white, the king stands gleaming in physical and in metaphysical presence. His hair has grown, and the fiery waves fall against his neck, cut in layers that frame his face. The eyes -- periwinkle yet as you may last remember them -- shine with lavender color between bronze lashes. He drips with Inspiration and with the energy that gives birth to poetry and magic.
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig glances to his guards and, bowing, they leave the room, closing the door behind them. Alone, Iowerth resumes his stare, his eyes studying the sight of you in bed, wounded. How badly, he wonders as he surveys your body for damage. Your eyes are closed. He does not wish to wake you. Quietly, Iowerth approaches the bed, to stand beside where you lie.

     Such rush, such bother. What has happened? Well - no matter. He cannot get up and see, to his quiet frustration. He remains on the bed, drowsing rather than sleeping; aware of the movements but dimly, as one is aware of things in a fever or a dream.
     What is to be done? He does not know. Everything is changed. But what now, Tiernan? You found answers. And - yes, you are ashamed. You grieve, and you feel the burden of guilt. And you cannot free yourself from it, or not yet. You know what you have to do.
     The voices whisper at his ears until he stirs, shaking his head slightly as if to dismiss mosquitoes. The blue eyes open - they have lost none of their luster to the illness or the pain, real or imagined; instead, they are bright, vibrant, locking suddenly on you as they widen then in surprise.
     Of all people he could have expected, you were not on the list...
     You should not have come. I ... do not ...
     He thinks it, but not to send it to you; it is inwardly directed, the thought choked off before it has much life. Tiernan draws in a deep breath as he tips his head back, lips curving in a shaky, very faint grin. "Ave, imperator," he whispers to you, lifting his good hand. "I have only myself to blame. It is ... it is so good to see you. You look..."
     You are what you are. He cannot find words; his hand draws back, presses to his eyes to still liquid that suddenly comes. Why am I so weak? Why am I crying, just at the sight of you? Damn me for a fool. "Ignore me," Tiernan whispers again, as if it is too difficult to speak any louder. "I'm a fool, Io. It will pass, at least. Please ..."

     Though Imperator he may be, he takes a seat at your bedside. "There will be time to talk of foolishness later," he offers quietly. "First, I wish to know how you are. How badly are you hurt? I could not get adequate word. I had to come see for myself." You are in one piece, at least. He does not wonder why you are crying. He has read enough to understand your pain.
     "It is good to see you," Iowerth murmurs. "I am glad you have survived your journey. I have heard some details. I am sorry for your loss, though I am grateful to Leon for saving you with his own sacrifice."
     He does not ask about Agapios. Certainly, he knows about him. If he knows details of the battle, then he certainly can surmise the rest. His words are measured, as if each one were given thought before being spoken. His energy is so different, so changed. Gone is the dark sensuality, the swirl and vortex of Charybdal whirlpools, replaced by a far quieter energy, almost serene.
     It is awkward. I don't know why it has become so. The fire that was simply does not exist anymore. I have become a living Descartes: I think, therefore I am. These thoughts are kept to himself. He merely looks at you, warmth and concern occupying equal portions of his expression.
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig surveys your bandages and wrappings again. "Your doctors have only told me that you are on the mend. You are recovering well...physically. Is there...anything you need, anything I can do for you?"

     "I will heal." He dismisses his injuries as if they are meaningless. He mops at his face, settling against the pillows. He cannot look at you. It is not because of the tears; not even because of the changes in you, in your energy. It is something else. "I have wanted and needed to see you, Io. I have so much to say, and the words are tangled."
     They are tangled in my throat, caught in my heart with their barbs. But I have to tell you. It is my only chance. He mops at his face again, taking a deep breath. Tears are banished by the force of his not insignificant will, and finally, he turns; he looks at you where you sit, he sighs.
     "I have to start with something you know already," Tiernan whispers the words to you, gaze unnaturally bright, face pale. "And with my shame." Yes - that is what it is, that strange flavour on his skin. "I hope for your forgiveness, but I don't expect it, Io. It has been a very educational journey. I understand things now which I hadn't before."
     He goes on looking at you with a quiet sort of wonder, drinking in the sight of you. "You always accepted me for who I was, didn't you. It was never important; it didn't matter. But I could not dismiss it. It ate at me from the inside until I couldn't force it down any longer. And I went looking for answers which you didn't need. I would not wonder if you were angry with me."
     Despite the quiet of his words, there is pain in his eyes. It is an agony for him - he has held it in his stomach for weeks, not recognizing it, not acknowledging it, not speaking of it. To speak of it to anyone but you would be betrayal. It has bred a horror in him, a loathing of mirrors. But now, he looks at you, candid tongue unloosed at last. "I am sorry, Io," Tiernan says quietly. "I would plead my ignorance, but that is no excuse, is it? I didn't know - how very selfish I must look to you. How badly worth your time."

     He inclines his head slightly and then his eyes lower to the surface of the bed, to no place in particular. "I was angry," he quietly notes. "And ... no... it didn't matter to me. I accepted you at face value, even when it put my life in jeopardy." He lifts his gaze from somewhere on the bed to your face, looking at your anguish, your honesty. He takes a breath and holds it for a moment. "I was... also angry because I knew you were not alone. And I could not go with you. I could not take the journey. I have ... come to appreciate that you were not alone for that. You would not have survived. In time, my anger subsided. Zafirah has pleaded with me to be patient, and I have strived to do that."
     Inclining his head once more, then slightly shaking it, Iowerth looks to you. "Why are you apologizing? Of all people? You had your reasons. You needed to know. I would never keep you from doing something that might bring you some peace. Eventually," he finishes in a hush.
     Iowerth exhales again. "You do not need my forgiveness in truth, but if you believe you do, then you have it, Tiernan. I am not upset with you. I worry only that I have changed too much, that I can no longer be the person you loved. And ... I apologize to you... for being ... insensitive to your need for identity. I was not as sympathetic as I should have been. If it is any comfort to you, know that I will not continue to abide such a dark place to exist within my borders. Kings and queens before me either did nothing or stopped too short of complete annihilation. I apologize to you on behalf of the kingdoms that stood by and did nothing for so long."
     That fiery, sensual energy has been replaced by intense but thoughtful power, the power of a political office, and the power of changing magics. It shows itself in his now natural regality, and in the light that practically beams from his every pore. "We can talk about it more when you ... have more energy. I do not want to tire you when you are trying to heal."

     "Don't go."
     Of all the things you have said, that is the first to truly penetrate. He reaches out with his good arm, reaches to try and snag your wrist. There is suffering there, yes, but there is an urgency. He cannot stop you from withdrawing, from retreating if you insist. But he does not want you to go.
     "I need to talk about things, Io. Deus, if you only knew ... I need you to hear." He speaks as quietly as if there were no haste in him, no agitation. And yet, you know it to be the opposite. For all his lack of volume, it is as if he is shouting. "I am apologizing to you because I have mistreated you. It has been as if I have been straining to hear something, a sentence passed on me of either life or death. In my efforts, in my need, I was so turned to my task that I have mistreated you."
     That is his belief - rightly or wrongly held. He looks at you, trembling with the effort he has made. He sinks back against the pillows now, hand clenching into a fist. "I know who I am now. Who I was. And all I have been able to think of is how little it matters, now. Isn't that funny, Io?" Tiernan's laugh is harsh, brittle as glass, and he closes his eyes, swallowing hard. "You read what I sent you?"

     He is not going but as you grab him by the wrist, he slips his hand to hold yours. He looks at the joined fingers, he grips your hand and then he sets it free. "I will stay," he nods. As you speak of mistreating him, he looks away. It is not that he is agreeing with you, but he leans forward, elbows on his knees, and he looks at his hands.
     "I read some of it. Enough of it," he quietly confirms. "But...whatever information you can provide will be of help to my commanders, I'm sure." He sighs suddenly, hands interlacing, steepling at his lips. "I accept your apology. And... I will listen... to whatever you have to say."
     "One question, first... if I may?"
     Periwinkle eyes turn to you, and you see the residue of his own doubt. "I know Agapios has been with you." In every sense of the word. "It almost sounds trivial to think of saying it aloud..." Pausing, Iowerth sits back in his chair, his fingers still laced but now resting on his white shirt. "Do you love him?" He looks once more to you. "I would like to know where I stand. I do not wish to assume."

     You are staying. He can let go of some of the tension; he cannot hide the relief on his face. His hand stays in yours until you pull yours away, and even then, it is where you have left it. "Most of what I have to tell first will ... not be of use to them," Tiernan tells you quietly. "It is something I want to share with you and noone else. It is not important to anyone but me, perhaps, but I have held onto it. I ... have wanted you to know before anyone else."
     It is silly. Foolish. I should not be so emotional. How many times have I rattled my thoughts around in my head? And here we are and it is not coming out as I rehearsed it at all. I am too emotional. Weak.
     Strange and terrible, that I am so undone. My 'mother's' cruelty is far-reaching, for me to feel this way. I am afraid, Io. So bitterly afraid...
     You ask your question, and you can see the surprise flare in his eyes. Love? And slowly, slowly, he shakes his head. For a long moment, there are no words.
     "I love only you," Tiernan tells you quietly, when finally he does speak. "I care for him. He has been a good friend. In a way, I regret that I don't love him, Io. He is such a good person. As a friend, as a brother, I could love him. Maybe, in time, it could turn to something else, something more - but now? There is a shrine in my heart that holds your picture, Iowerth. Every day I visit that shrine. I feed the flames of its hearth, Io. I give my prayers in the form of my thoughts of you, of talking to you when I am far from you. It is," he adds, suddenly plaintive, "a damned nuisance sometimes, you know. Missing you so much. Wanting you so much. Noone else stands a chance as long as your altar still stands."
     He closes his eyes, a faint flush of colour on his face. He is embarrassed. It is the emotion he finds ordinarily expressed on paper and not in words. Slowly, he inhales; exhales, inhales again. "No," Tiernan whispers, "if you mean am I in love with him ... then the answer is no. And if you just meant do I love him in other ways, then I've just made a damnable fool of myself, haven't I? Or have I anyway, regardless?"

     He looks to you, his look unwavering as you profess you love for him, and describe your feelings for Agapios. "I have been very bitterly jealous," he murmurs. "I have... imagined every possible configuration of forms. I have wondered, as I have changed, what I could hope to offer you other than limitations." While his coloring does not flare as it would have before, there is brightness in his eyes, the expression of an emotion held at bay for some time. "I wanted you to know that."
     Iowerth does not respond to the rest, nor does he comment on foolishness. There is enough of that to go around for everyone. He exhales that all away, turning his attention to you. He sets it aside for now. "I keep interrupting you. I am sorry. Please," he gestures for you to continue. "Go ahead."
     His attentiveness is complete. There is a placidity about his expression, though his eyes are sharp and bright. He waits now, as he has done for months. He waits to hear what you have to say, what you have discovered, and where the two of you shall go from here.

     "You are the one person I know who has consistently pushed limits, Io." He is serious, but there is a certain dry humour for a moment in his voice. Did you know he'd found a sense of humour? "I do not know what limitations you're talking about. You mean your throne? The one which you said you'd not let get in the way of our relationship more than it must? Your public persona? So named for how you said you would make public our relationship? Or maybe you mean your wife - who wants to learn to love me, because you have loved me?"
     Have loved. He is tender there; he is not jumping to conclusions either. He does not know what you want, and it completes his helplessness without undoing it in the slightest. He pats the bed a little, next to him. "I have been a brute these past two weeks," Tiernan whispers. "I threw a mug across the room. Not at anyone, granted. But I ... have been inconsolable. Even Agapios has given me my space. Which is good; I have been unable to endure anyone's company, Io."
     And yet, he wants you to stay...
     He takes a deep breath, closing his eyes in thought. What should he say? "I know who my family was," Tiernan finally says. "I did not expect it to hurt as much as it does, but - I know, Io. I am afraid you have been - technically - sleeping with an older man."

     "My ...office and I are inseparable," he says quietly. "I have come to understand this over the past couple of months. And... yes... the limitations of my office, the limitations of my time, the limitations that are there because I am married, that is yet another consideration. I cannot simply take off with you to Venice or any other place. In fact, I cannot now go to the material realm at all. I am becoming a servant of Heaven. And it has changed me utterly. I do not know," his serene expression cracks to reveal more emotion beneath the surface. "I do not know if you will find me remotely interesting in this fashion. There is no more shadow, Tiernan, no more ocean. There is no burning lust, no streaking comet," he whispers. "Little left of what you once loved."
     Iowerth looks at you again, his gaze settling on you as you tell him some of what you have learned. He nods slowly in thought, not seemingly shocked by what you have revealed. Little would surprise him at this stage. "I am sorry for your pain," he murmurs. "So ... your real family ... your place of birth? Are any of your family yet living?"

     He stares at you for a moment as you speak, head tilting. Are you speaking in tongues? No, really - what? And so, he skips over it for the moment entirely. He cannot comprehend it well enough to formulate a quick and ready answer. He will digest it in the background while he otherwise answers you.
     "I was born in Ireland. As near as I can place it, I was born somewhere in the sixth century." That answers your question rather neatly, doesn't it? He shakes his head quickly, his hand coming up to rub at his face. Cheek, nose, eyes, forehead. "She took me when I was an infant... for whatever reason, whatever purpose. Because she felt like it; because I was to grow to be king after my father, because I was to wed the land and my energy, my focus plough into the earth to bring prosperity to the people. She was ... curious ... as to what she could do with that energy, that magic. With me."
     His hand comes away from his face to settle on the blanket, and his gaze turns downwards, to watch the trail of his fingers. "She ... studied me for a while," he says eventually. "Until other things grew more interesting. And so she put me, body and soul, into a bubble of hardened crystal filled with liquid silver, and consigned me to sleep without aging, without dreaming, until her attention was on me once again. It is a pattern, Io." He gestures to himself, to his skin; to the crescents that mar the pale.
     "Each time I angered her, she punished me. Whether I meant to or not, that is irrelevant. She marked me, and then she sent me to sleep again." The blue eyes lift, and he looks to you, seeking your response, whether it is interest, anger, rejection, denial - whatever it might be. "I have lived the same amount of time as we have known, Io. It has just not been a consecutive life. And she had plenty of time to watch me gain my magic, to ... block it where she could, to try and twist things. It is not because of her if I have grown at all straight rather than crooked. Each time, she would punish me, and send me away in her anger, and I would remember ... nothing."
     It is easier to tell you these things than it is for him to tell himself. But there is still pain in his eyes, his hand closing tightly. "She was unable to twist whatever magic I have, Io. She was able to block it, to stunt it; perhaps now, I will ... grow more. It ... doesn't matter," he says finally. "I have already seen the best thing I have ever done. And I have consigned that to death." His fist lifts to his mouth, his eyes close tightly. The wave which is washing over him is deeper and more violent by far than any he has experienced before, whether from you or the ocean itself. He does not speak; he does not breathe. He holds onto the air as if for life itself, tears sprung at the corners of his eyes slow to fall.

     "You are older even than my father," he says with a quiet, droll, and astonished tone. It is strange, and yet it explains much -- the depth in your eyes, and the stunted nature you have felt and complained of. But it is not intimidating in anyway. For though you have over a thousand years of existence, you have only twenty-seven years of experience.
     Iowerth is quiet as you explain what you have learned, some of which he has read, some he has heard from his mother, his brother, but not in such detail. He watches you throughout your monologue, watches as the slow moving wave of your emotions begin to crest. And though he feels a strange gulf between you, when you begin to cry he rises from his chair beside the bed to join you where you lie.
     He is still solid to the touch despite his ever-growing ethereal demeanor, and his hands brush gently against your face, wiping away your tears. Iowerth opens his arms to you, inviting you to roll forward and use his shoulder to cry on, to sob into his chest if you wish.
     "I am sorry for your pain, Tiernan," the king murmurs. "For all that has been done to you, taken from you, from all that you have lost. I know Leon was very precious to you. Perhaps the most precious thing in your remembered existence."
     His fingers pad against your skin. "He was a brilliant creation. I hope you will be able to set aside your guilt and to remember him fondly. He would not have wished you to punish yourself, I do not think. Lions do not tend to be vengeful creatures."
     Exhaling, Iowerth rests his head on the pillow beside your own. His periwinkle eyes, bright lavender-blue, beaming past bronze eyelashes. Gone are the corals that shimmered beneath the sea-foam green seas of his youth, those waters you played in when you were so seemingly seventeen. In their place, bright lavender stars in a sky you have yet to explore, that he has yet to explore.

     You are there. And he needs you to be there, did you but realize it. He rolls towards you, curves to you, burying his face against your chest without hesitation, without holding back. There is no reticence; no delay. The tears fall, and his shoulders shake, his one hand clutching at your shirt front for a long moment as he is racked by sorrow.
     Such torment. Such grief. He is mourning so many things, that which he has told you and that which he has not. It is a thorough upheaval of emotion such as you have not seen from him before. The depths in him which he has hidden are shown at last.
     "He was my friend," Tiernan whispers to you at last, his face still buried against your broad chest. "My first friend. My only friend for so long... until I met you, Io. Any of my other creations, they were toys or they were servants, at best they were something like children to me. But he came before all of them. He understood me and he knew me, and he had life and vigor of his own. He had his own mind, his own purpose. And he set it aside to help me, to save me - and it killed him. I am afraid, Io, even though it is of no sense. She took my parents from me, took my past. She has directly or indirectly tainted or marked or taken from me every love I have given. I am afraid that she will have you, too."
     It is not sense. He has admitted it to be no such thing. But there is rawness in his voice, and he stiffens, letting himself fall back to the bed, to the pillow, his one hand remaining loosely curled against your side as he closes his eyes. You are too large to fit in his gaze right now. "I am of no age at all. I am so stupid, Io. A dunce. What have I done?"

     "That, she will never have," his voice is even, quiet. "She is dead, and soon the earth that gave rise to her will forget it existed at all." But he does not wish to talk about that. He is not certain what he shall do. What he shall not do is nothing.
     Iowerth holds you. He holds you simply as you cry, his arms surrounding you. A hand lifts now and then to brush back your hair, to wipe some of the wetness from your face. "You are not stupid, Tiernan. No one said the truth would be easy, that it would not hurt, hmm? Especially in the short term."
     He sighs, wiping your face again. "I wish there were something I could offer you, some lessening of the pain. But there isn't. Just know that you have friends, those who support you and want the best for you. Eventually, the pain will lessen. Eventually," his hand smoothes over your hair, "... knowing who you are, where you came from, the truth of what you lived through will add to your strength, not to your guilt."
     Iowerth closes his eyes. He draws you into him, holding you against his chest. The white cloth of his shirt becomes translucent with your tears. And for the first time in two months, though there is a gulf between you, he kisses you and the kiss becomes the start of a bridge.
     It is not yet sturdy enough to allow him to cross over. It shivers in the wind of his breath. But eventually...

     His one arm slides against your side, rubbing as if to steal some of your warmth. Something cold has brushed by his soul, and he is not warmed yet. His thumb slides slowly back and forth, the web between thumb and forefinger against you. His other arm is still in its sling, and for a moment, his expression is almost comical in its frustration. "I should have guessed," Tiernan whispers to you. "I should have known that it would hurt. When did she ever do a thing which did not? I should have had more thought to the consequences of my own actions at every step and stage along the way."
     He does not readily forgive himself for imperfections. But he does look up to you eventually, gradually. Though his ink-black eyelashes are wet with sooty tears, he looks to you, shifts closer to you. "I love you," Tiernan whispers, his hand moving from your side to your face. He brushes his thumb against the corner of your mouth, hesitant for a moment; he does not know, has not recognized a signal yet.
     And then you kiss him...
     He shivers in your grasp, a soft groan escaping him. I have missed you so much. His mouth plays against yours, tentatively at first, but then firmer, lips parting against yours, grasping at your mouth as if with a tender dexterity, tongue tasting your lips; as if to ask permission, May I? He does not pressure, does not force. But he ignores the protest of creaking ribs to curl with you almost like a cat, his hand going from your cheek to the nape of your neck.

     It is strange. It is strange because it is strange. The tentative kiss, the parting of his mouth beneath your own insistence. He can remember how you taste, how you feel. He can see in his mind's eye your wild, intwined youth. The marketplace. The singer's apartment. Sneaking out of the window of one pub to another to throw off the scent of your joined secret. He can see it like a movie flickering against the backdrop of his forehead, the hours you spent in one another's arms.
     And yet...
     The twisting serpentine need, the coiling whirlpools of his libido are simply absent. The kiss is tender, wholly lacking in heat. Love is present, it is there beneath his skin, it is there in his eyes, but there is no edge to it, no thrilling precipice, no grasping or drowning sea. And it is strange.
     Iowerth parts the kiss. It dissolves airily like a cloud. Bending his head, he sighs. A few years ago and shoulder wound or no shoulder wound, you and he would have been at it. Now, it is strange. There is an awkwardness that was no there before, but one that has been there since your last grand argument.
     Since, in fact, he was crowned king...
     "Even if you had known, or had allowed yourself to know," Iowerth murmurs, "...you would still have gone to find yourself. For who could you become if you did not have a starting place? There is no point in regretting it," he adds quietly. "Learn from it instead."
     With an exhale, Iowerth rolls over to lie upon his back, his wet shirt see-through where your tears have drenched him. Some of his markings have changed. "I love you too," he says quietly after a few minutes of silence -- only the sound of your breathing intervening. He turns his head toward you, his lavender gaze bright as they take you in again. "It has been difficult without you."
     Iowerth doesn't go into details -- he doesn't want to fuel your natural propensity toward guilt and self-flagellation.

     There is no hurry on his part. You have changed - but so, too, has he. The time apart has led to changes for him and you both, and that change makes old things new and strange again. He holds onto you, but you part from the kiss, and he watches you, face alive with emotion. The edges of his mouth tremble, firming by willpower rather than absent intent. Where you lie down, he sits up.
     There are a thousand things he could say, a thousand questions he could ask. But he says none of them. He asks none of them. His palm presses gently to your chest, five fingers spreading and he rubs slowly against the sodden cloth, against your skin.
     "I was born in the middle of a storm that came from the sea. It was from that storm that I was first noticed, by the rising of the crows from the farthest points of land. Green and growing things bent and bowed down before the wind that presaged my birth - and I was born." Tiernan tells you it quietly, eyes locked steadily on you as if to look through you, past the mirror of your gaze and to search your soul.
     "I was meant to be a king. My father's day has long passed, and in that land, the age of kings has gone far, far away. It has been buried in the soil beneath a cross, it has been eroded by the blood of thorns and of wars, of the advancing age of men. There is still room for magic in that world - but not for the magic I know and love best, Io. I move easily between here and there because I have been equally lost in both worlds. But my true place in that world has long since been erased. My true place was never in this world; it was artificial, based on the lies she told. In this world and that, my place has become what I have made of it. But I have done a bad job of it."
     His hand slides again, eyes unnaturally bright as he looks at you. He bends forward over you until his lips touch your forehead, then your lips, and he shifts to straddle your waist. It's easier that way for him to do what he does next.
     Slowly, Tiernan reaches up with his good hand, finding the catch that holds his sling in place. With an experimental wince, he undoes the catch, hissing as he lets his arm fall. With great care, he places both hands over your hearts, resting back on his haunches. "Whether or not it is too late," he tells you, voice husky with emotion, "I tell you the same thing, Io. I love you more than I did when I left. I did not love you enough, then. I couldn't give you all of me, because there were so many parts of myself missing. Now ... now those parts are here. Maybe they do not all fit evenly, but they are there, and they are settling. I should never have asked you to do the things I asked. I should not have hurt you the way I did. It doesn't undo the hurts, I know. It doesn't change a thing. But I am asking you... I am asking you to look at me with your eyes and tell me. Is it too late?"

     Whether it is wise to love him, he cannot answer. Whether it has or shall do you any good at all will ultimately be up to you to decide. He has no way of knowing, though he suspects you could be as happy with someone else and far more free. He closes his eyes, sighing at his thoughts, his doubts, trying to dispel them as you continue to speak of your past, of your stolen destiny.
     His eyes remain closed even after you ask him your question. Is it too late?
     Lavender eyes blink open to see you straddled over him. There is no smile, no grin. The look is serious and it is leveled at your earnest face. "No," he murmurs at last, "... it is not too late, Tiernan." He sighs. "I just ... think that we will not be as we were. We are different men than we were even two months ago. And those boys we were, those boys have grown up... and out of that romance."
     Iowerth can feel a part of him digging in his heels. That part of him wants to be angry, wants to stay in his rut, those wagon wheels his brother pointed out to him but weeks before. But he steps out of them, he forces himself to step out of them. "It is not too late, but we cannot simply stand where we were standing and pick up those conversations. Too much has happened," he murmurs. "To us both."
     His gaze keeps to your eyes, your face. "I had no right to be hurt," he softly argues, "...no right to be jealous. But when you were away, I could not keep from thinking of you. Could not help but imagine all sorts of physical configurations..." You and Agapios. And he is not wrong to think that things have occurred between you. "My energy is shifting, my libido is gone. I do not think that I shall make for a very entertaining lover..."

     "You're still an idiot," Tiernan counters softly. He bends to kiss you again, the kiss falling like an arrow, warm where it hits at your mouth, tugging at yours, pulling before he is then sitting up again. His hand - his good hand - rests against your cheek, then slides through your hair, tugging.
     "You had every right to be jealous. Don't take patience too far. I was not respectful of your feelings, I didn't communicate well. The fact that I'm not in love with him and not planning on running off to set up house with him somewhere under the sea in a gay twist on a Disney movie doesn't mean that your feelings were wrong." Wry blue eyes look down at yours, his pain and grief lessening in the face of this. "You are changing. I am changing. We are not what we were. But we are still who we are, Io. You may question that, but I don't. The question is, can we be what we want to be to each other... and what is that?"
     His wounded arm is still weak; you can feel the effort it takes as he begins to unhurriedly unbutton your shirt. "I've soaked your clothing, my king," Tiernan murmurs. "I will have to fix that. Terribly rude of me, yes? Ah, well," he sighs, "I suppose if you insist, you can toss me in the dungeons. Might teach me a lesson. Of course, seeing as I seem determined to punish myself," he is openly mocking himself now, a faint grin on his face, "you might punish me better by refusing me such torments."
     He tugs your shirt free, spreading it away from the markings on your chest, fingertips slow as they trace the marks, learning the changes for himself. "I hurt you," Tiernan says frankly. "I did worse than that; I hurt us. I'm not sure what you think I am looking for in a lover. Party tricks? A circus? If I wanted that, I'd visit your brother, or I'd have fallen in love with Agapios. The truth of the matter is, I cannot stand a surfeit of light and sweetness. It sets my nerves jangling, every one of them on end - I can't sustain it, Io. Not like that. We have throughout our love been tortured by a lack of peace within ourselves, with one another, within our world. I ... have been insecure more often than not, and you have tried to fill that gap, and found that you couldn't - that you were not enough. That is the root of things."
     He bends, touching his nose to yours, the laugh gone from his eyes, blue depths locked to your own shifting lavender gaze. "I know who I am now," Tiernan says softly. "It hurts - yes. Every day there will be an ache for what I lost. Not all the words in all the world, this one or the other, will make me stop regretting it. But it will fade, in time. This is not like that other time. When I say that I need you, it is not as a crutch. It is because you are the source of all my joy in life. And no matter how you have changed, I do not think that has changed, Iowerth Rhudd Draig. I would like to try and prove that to you... but I am hesitant to. Has your libido shifted so that you no longer desire me at all?"
     "Can I not move you," his hands slide from your chest over your belly, lightly palming your groin before landing against your thighs to support himself, "in the slightest? My mouth, my hands, my cock, my ass - I don't offer you just my heart. Should they be left off the table?" Tiernan tilts his head as he looks to you, the way a raven observes the world. "Should I shut my mouth already and stop wasting your time, o king of kings? Or can I continue to tell you the psalms which are in my mind?"

     The markings are changing even now. The dragons are fading. As of yet, they have no replacement. The swirling oceans, the Charybdis that swirled at his navel and beneath it to his groin have been replaced by the intricate markings of spiral galaxies, nebular clouds and clusters of stars. There are constellations that mark the musculature, and dark clouds that mark the boundary between the marches. The markings are in a variety of colors, no longer just midnight blue -- they contain all the colors in the spectrum; the breakdown of pure light into all its component parts.
     "Tell me your psalms," Iowerth whispers, and his aching heart finds a co-conspirator in his body, for it reacts to the sliding of your hand. He closes his eyes, turning his head side to side briefly.
     "I do not know what to think," he whispers. He doesn't want to admit that you hurt him. That he should have felt the jealousy he has been feeling. "I thought you loved the ocean, those dark seas in me, being buffeted by the waves. Those don't exist anymore, Tiernan. I am not that edged blade. I am becoming something far more ethereal in nature. Serene. And there is a purity of spirit and mind that is coming over me..."
     You will not enjoy me. That is his unspoken fear. He frowns a bit. "It isn't you," he quietly insists. "It is me. Without that edge... without that spirt... without those powers that you loved in me...there is not that same...bite, grasp, that whirlpool that would pull at you, surround you, suck you... it doesn't exist anymore. I ... simply do not think I would curl anyone's toes at the moment."
     Certainly not after they've been when a mer-man in mer-form.
     Iowerth sighs, looking at you perched on his lap. "I do not know how to be intimate with this energy, this serenity. Serenity is seldom sexy," he drolls.

     "I loved them because they were a part of you. They never were you." His mouth comes close to yours again, brushes yours, pulls away. "I bore up under them willingly because it was a part of being with you - being with someone else does mean putting up with things one otherwise would not have expected, for good or for ill, Io. I have always been afraid that I would not be enough for you. That with your appetites - you always were able to exhaust me. Never the other way around. Remember our argument? When you told me about you and your brother?"
     He does not put it into words. He knows you will remember. His hands begin to massage you; the one hand purposeful, the other aimless, drifting in its brother's wake. "My hurt was that I was not enough," Tiernan tells you quietly. "That I knew I could never quell that energy. I would never fill what was missing; I would never still those waters. I never would, and I never could. I wanted to be enough for you, Io. But I couldn't be. And you ... the way I hurt you ... wasn't it the same thing in reverse? You, wanting to be enough for me, feeling and believing that you were not, are not, because other men have touched my skin? What hurt do we bear, except the mirror of one another?"
     His mouth moves to yours again, hair flopping over one eye. It is closed, as is his other; he kisses you slowly, languorously, tasting your mouth without hurry, without rush. He explores your mouth as his fingers move over your skin, with the finesse and precision of a watchmaker. I love you, his patient lips and tongue insist. Only you, his fingers spell out, over and over as they trail against you. And again, he sets your mouth free, teeth tugging at your lower lip before he sits up.
     "Serenity isn't sexy, you say." Tiernan cocks an eyebrow at you, and his hands move down to your belt, working at the clasp, undoing it slowly. Everything is slow right now; it has to be, with his injuries. He ignores them, continuing despite them, without comment or complaint. "And yet I have met your wife, Io. It is difficult to stand long in her presence without all the blood rushing from one's head, and she is the most serene being I have ever known. Serenity does not mean being aimless, without purpose. What has always attracted me to you, Io, is not your whirlpools. Whirlpools can exist without a purpose. But you? You have always had purpose. I love you for it, even when your purpose, your vision, has meant you have been busy, and shortened our hours together. And what I loved was not your whirlpools; they were a side issue. What I loved was how your purpose could be me."
     He draws away your belt, his palm resting against your groin. He looks to you, and the smile returns, quiet, confident, lighting his eyes from behind. "You are my purpose," Tiernan says quietly. "You are my reason for living. In the labyrinth, in the mountains, on the ocean, on the road - I fought my way back here because I did not want to die. I wanted to go on living, to share my life with you. And yes - sex is a part of life. I am not ready to give that up. But if you do not think you are sexy ..." He chuckles, a close sound in his throat. "Time for those psalms," he whispers.
     Tiernan slides off of you, curling up next to you, resting against you on his side. His hand slides slowly over your belly, fingertips slipping just into the waist of your trousers as his lips move to your ear. He says nothing for a silent moment, letting you breathe, letting you feel him there, his presence, solid, not shadowy or thinned by grief. And then he whispers in your ear...
     Waking or sleeping, I have loved to look at you. The shape of your body; that you have always been so solid, so irrepressibly present, my love; when I was at my weakest, I could still rest on your solid foundation. You say you have changed; I contend you have changed less than you think. You are still Iowerth. You are still in my heart, and none can contest or overrule the hold you have on me.
     I have been missing you since before I even left, comes the persistent whisper, his fingers slowly sliding further into your pants, tangling at your groin, against your skin. He kneads there, at the base of your cock, light touches gradually becoming firmer, then lighter again, in slow and undulating waves. My head has been crowded with you. The way you smile when sun hits your skin. The sound of your voice when you are half-asleep. The way you wake up slowly when there is time, when you pretend to full wakefulness and force alertness onto your head like a mantle when there is not. I love the taste of your skin; the way you harden in my mouth when I slide under the blankets, the way you look when I am perched on your cock, the way you feel when I am spread beneath you, the astonished way you look at me when I am fucking you. The way color moves across your skin when I have managed to affect you - with these two hands, with this mouth, with this body, with this soul. Do we need whirlpools in order to have sex? Does any of what I love about you rest upon the presence of chaos and destruction? We have both had our sucking vortices; you with your whirlpools, I with my lack of identity. Maybe without them, we stand half a chance.

     He looks away at the mention of the argument, and at its subject matter. He will not regret it, but he will also not treasure it, that time. It was not what should have occurred. The twins were desperate to maintain their connection, and in their desperation, clung to one another.
     But then you kiss him, turning his face toward you again. What is this stubbornness? he thinks to himself. Is it that I am wounded and do not want to give in? Or is it because I do not know how I will be? What will happen. His mouth relents, becoming malleable beneath your own, and he takes in a breath as you begin to unclothe him. There, beneath your fingers, where there was once a great maw of a whirlpool, that mark of Charybdis, there is a spiral galaxy like the milky way, an intricate beautiful mark that stretches beneath his navel and around his member, making it the center of the universe. The dragons have been replaced by stars -- though one sea dragon remains in the constellation of the hydra that circles the root of him. The colors are not merely midnight and the paleness of his skin but now purple, blue, magenta, violet, making his skin tone, where it is used for the brightness of stars and stardust, all the more brilliant.
     Your words have begun to soothe him, to comfort him, to reach inside him and shake some sense into his brain. As you roll off of him to lie beside him and as he rolls toward you, you see the star brightness in his own eyes. He closes his eyes as you whisper to him, and an allowance of a single tear is permitted to roll down his cheek, and the hydra that you hold begins to take a firm shape, thickening where it is grasped. The dragons have vanished here, too. Stardust clouds, the Milky Way, cover him -- the transformation must have been painful, or at least very intense -- from root to tip, with nothing spared.
     His detachment has been due to worry, the cruel and always fatal What Ifs. While you were away, at night when he was alone, those were the only questions to occupy him. What if you did not return. What if you fell in love with Agapios. What if you missed the dark energy and could not abide the newfound tenderness. What if you and he simply could not be with one another without hurting one another. These and more.
     His hand lifts to touch your face, his eyes opening to look at you. His new colors, his new markings show up in their many colors, vivid and fantastic as dreams, and the whiteness of his complexion underneath goes pink, then various shades of red. The red is purple where his flesh is resting hard against the palm of your hand. There is not that burn you remember -- fire and water are not his elements -- but there is a different kind of intensity, one far more subtle. That of illumination. He shimmers and his eyes sparkle in their light blue and lavender variations. Purpose, not passion, defines him.
     I will have her words in my ears and your hands on my skin. How will I ever endure that? he wonders to himself. He does not smile, or grin, or tease. Iowerth looks to you, his eyes not moving from your face, your gaze, as his hands move to reach between you, to find the fastenings of your own clothing.
     The waves of the ocean do not fill your ears. Water does not choke in your throat or lap at your skin. The only sound is the sound of his breathing and yours, unless you are speaking. Iowerth is silent. He sighs as he looks at you, his face showing sudden intensity layers deep from his eyes to his complexion to the expression itself. His emotions are pulled to the surface of his being like the blood is to his skin. But he cannot speak them. They are too many, too intense. His eyes convey it, his flesh conveys it. With a short exhale, he closes the distance between you and kisses you again.
     It is a sweeping thing, a grand thing, as resplendent and vast as his palace. While there is no palpable heat, no leap of fire from his tongue to yours, there is a soft collusion, the blending of your mouth and his mouth, a subtle dissolving of two beings into one.

     There is no accusation in his eyes or voice. What has happened, happened. While you have sat and waited, he has fought for his life. He has fought to return to you. He does not force, but he is present, insistent in both solidity and desire. "I love you," Tiernan repeats softly, intently. "I am here. I ... cannot force my way back into your life, Io. All that I can do is tell you the truth of how I feel, of what I want. Then it is up to you to decide if we go forward or if that is no longer possible."
     His eyes tell you of his hope, his fear. Losing you would be more pain than he has yet known - but he does not put it into words again. You know. He will leave you some dignity in this, even if he has stripped himself to none.
     You are in his grasp, your flesh hardening, and though he tries hard not to, he takes it as encouragement. Finger curl around you, squeezing affectionately; they drum lightly in percussion along the base of your cock. Hope flares in his eyes as your hands move to his clothes, unable to be hidden. He is struggling within himself, and yet finding himself an open book before you. How many times have you seen him holding himself in reserve, never knowing what or why was being held back, being hidden? He is shaky still; insecure, still. But that fundamental cause for his unease is gone. He knows who and what he is... and what he is not.
     "I know now that I am at least in birth, worthy," Tiernan whispers to you, his weak arm lifting unsteadily, clumsily to rest on top of your head. "You never worried about it. You never doubted. But I ... I feared that I was born of such evil, Io, that sooner or later it would transform me, from the inside out. That I could be used as a weapon against you... that I would hurt you, in court or in your bed. And that fear - came close to bringing itself about, self-fulfilling. But now I know, yes? They may be long dead. They may have gone to their graves mourning my loss. And I regret that. But whether they were good people or evil, they were just ... people, who lived their lives and worked to give back to the earth the power that had been bestowed upon them." His eyes again are too bright, too bright by far. "It turns me from someone to be shunned for who my mother was, the potential serpent in the nest of your court, to someone easily overlooked. And I can be that so much more with easy heart and sound sleep, Io. That is ... if you'll still have me."
     Your kiss comes, and it catches him almost by surprise. Oh, the signs were all there, but he nonetheless is afraid to expect - afraid to hope, though hope and his heart are worn on his sleeve. And his mouth parts to yours, a muffled groan heard. He forgets his injuries, physical or otherwise. If the energy is different, it is nonetheless all the same to him; it is you. His hand on your head leads to fingers tangling in your hair for purchase, his mouth moving openly against yours in enjoyment that is as much of the spirit as the body. His tongue touches yours, strokes along yours, invites it to follow back into the cave of his mouth. His thigh presses to yours, then lifts, sliding as he throws it over your thigh, rubbing up to your hip. Where you go, I will follow...

     He parts the kiss and he takes your face in his hands as if to shake some sense into you as well. "You do not have to work to come back into my life. I want you with me. I want you with only me. The man I love, the man in my arms, the man in my bed," he whispers this. "I want to know when my work is done that I have you to come to, the joy in my life. I do not expect you to do nothing but please me," he almost smiled at that. "I ... am going to give myself to you completely. Nothing held back. I only ask for the same."
     His hand strokes your face. "You could have been the son of a cobbler and I would have felt the same. It doesn't matter to me, Tiernan. It never has and still does not. I knew you were not evil. I trusted in your heart. And though we have struggled," his hand moves in your dark hair, "..with ourselves and with one another, I have always trusted in your heart. I want you with me."
     Iowerth Rhudd Draig exhales. "I wonder if we can start over. Be these men we are without being saddled with past arguments. Shall we try? I will do my best not to protect you -- you are fully able to care for yourself -- least of all from myself. I am sorry for not... giving you all I had. From this day forward... I will make a new commitment to you. I want to make a new commitment to you."
     Leaning in, he covers your mouth with his own, tugging lightly at your mouth, getting to know them again. Without the spectre of Agapios, or Otto, or any of the others.

     "You can protect me," Tiernan counters your argument with his own, voice quiet. He butts up against you, his hands moving against your skin, through your hair, grasping at you. "From myself. Now that she is dead ... I am my own worst enemy, and have been for some time. Of course," he almost smiles at that, "it will mean you will have to be vigilant. You may have to shake me like a terrier does a rat."
     He is not entirely joking, but he is not entirely serious, either. He is recovering. It is so much easier, with you within reach. "It was never how you felt about me, but my own perceptions," Tiernan tells you softly. "My own fears. The whispers I heard were never in your voice, Io. I have always known that I love you. I have always been afraid of not being good enough for you. Of not being enough for you. Of disappointing you, letting you down - that some day, the voices at court would point out my failings and shortcomings, point out my mother's history, and make a case against me which you would by chance or fate have to do something about. I would not want you to ignore truth. You are better than that. You are a better king than that. A better man. And so I lived in fear."
     He squirms against you, hands roaming with quick, light-fingered touch. It is suddenly upon him. He wanted you before, and now - now it is in him as a tearing hunger, huge, enormous, leaving him gasping for fulfillment. His thighs spread, and he pulls himself on you, groin to groin, mouth to mouth. He kisses you as if diving from a cliff with no fear of heights left in him, his hand to the back of your head. "...You are my king," Tiernan whispers. "Not in fealty to your throne, Io. In fealty to your heart - you hold my heart. I want noone else to hold it - to hold me." He rocks slightly against you, then stills, eyes meeting yours. "If I have all of you ... I can give you myself, Io. I will make mistakes. I am not perfect. But I will try to forgive myself if you can forgive me. I only know how to say this in one way, and I do not know if you will agree to it. I do not know if it will make you happy, or angry, or frightened. I do not know. But I am going to say it anyway."
     He slides off of you again, a slow, slow movement, ignoring the wince as he uses both arms to move himself, one hand to your chest as he reaches for you with his other hand. His hand slides snugly around your cock, and he squeezes, once, then looks up at you. "I realize I am asking this a little late," Tiernan whispers to you. "I know that you may not be ready for this. It may not be what you want. But I must ask. I have fought my way back to you and I offer my heart and all the rest of me up on your altar. Iowerth, king of kings, captain of the lonely ship of my heart, my prized lover and best friend and boon companion... will you marry me?"

     "Ask me again," Iowerth says quietly. "This time, ask me without your hands in my pants." Slowly his lips spread and he gives the first smile of the evening. Once given, it can only grow. Once shown, it shines. His face gives off an almost physical light, palpable as well as visual. He beams. He is becoming one of the stars that lives on his body. But perhaps that is the fate of every man who marries an angel of heaven.
     "I am trying to keep up with you," he chuckles quietly. "It does not have to happen all at once, yes? You are coming home with me." He leans in, kissing you again. His mouth acquiesces to yours, opening as he pulls you onto him, rolling you over as he lands softly on his back.
     "Ask me again, Tiernan. And I will give you my answer," Iowerth murmurs. He smiles beneath you, his red hair on the white case of the pillow. His eyebrows open upward, expectantly.
     As you were saying....

     He blushes at that, going strawberry to the very roots of his dark hair. Slowly and admittedly with reluctance, his hand draws away, out of your trousers. Not without giving you another squeeze first, though. Oh, he likes the feel of you, yes, even in his hand. He sighs as he slides against you, a roll of his body against yours as he draws slightly away.
     Not entirely, you understand; just enough that he isn't practically humping you where you lie.
     Tiernan rocks himself up to his knees, kissing you as he pulls himself up and back. "If I am going to do this," he murmurs, "let me do it properly, yes?" The blue depths of his gaze have a tenderness to them as he looks at you. In them there is love, yes, and devotion, almost slavish in how utterly it holds him, rules him. He has not been able to let himself go with anyone - not Agapios, not Otto, noone. If he could not have all of you, then none could have all of him - do you see it? It has been lonely, even when in the arms of any lover...
     "I love you," Tiernan whispers to you, bending to brush his lips to yours before he slides off of you, to the edge of the bed. He is clumsy, still, and you can see him wince as he goes down to his knees. He braces himself, pulling himself up to only one knee as he looks over the edge of the bed, looks up at you. "Without you, my food has no flavour, Io. I wander through the world, and I see things, but the colour has fled. I live in a world of black and white and grey, praying for colour to return. When you are far from me, I talk within my head constantly, and it is you I am talking to, you who I long to hear, long to see. The sun does not rise nor does it set without that I am thinking of you. The moon does not preside over the heavens with her court of stars but that I wish you were with me in her audience - and the devil may take me if I care if she is shocked by what I want to do to you under her gaze, and you to me."
     He reaches for you awkwardly with his injured arm, hand landing heavily on the bed. "Whatever children you have, I would gladly watch over as if they were my own, knowing that they are yours. I wish it were possible that I could offer the same in turn... whatever the future holds, I want you to be in it. I love you more than I love my life, and without you in it, my life becomes a tawdry, pointless thing indeed. With all this said, I can only say - I love you. I love you. I love you. Will you have me? Will you marry me? Before an audience of molecules or an audience of the entire world, I don't care. I want to be yours and for you to be mine."
     He looks up with his eyes again bright, that one shining wing of dark hair falling loosely across one blue beam. "Will you marry me, Io? Or must I crawl in beggar's disguise back down to the outside of the gates of love?"

     Rolling over on his side, his body a splendid spectacle half in and half out of his clothing, Iowerth turns to face you, holding your hand as you reach for him. He smiles at you as you make your declaration, his lips winding slowly, slanting. "I love you," Iowerth says, "...and I will marry you. I will both have and be a husband. I sound very busy."
     How it will occur, or what it will be, he will leave to the future. Tonight there is only the proposal, and the reunion of a love affair.
     "Now, you can come back to the bed," Iowerth says, He rolls back and faces you on his side, but now on the side of the bed Agapios once occupied. "We have not made love since I became king," he quietly notes. "Isn't that astonishing? I am sorry, Tiernan." He becomes serious. "It is not for lack of wanting you. I'm sure it has felt that way, and I apologize. I ... have been overwhelmed. By the changes in my nature, by the changes in our relationship, and now..." he smiles to you, clearly moved, "...and now by your proposal."
     "But it is no excuse," the king says, "... and it ends tonight, this separation. And after tonight, we will not find ourselves in this gulf...come up here... and help me find myself. You are good at that. And now I need help..."

     The color stays high in his face as he looks up at you, looks to you. There is that longing, that yearning, that half of a hope, half dread. Will you say yes? Will you say no? Will you mend or break his heart? He is resilient, but he is also fragile. And you have such power over his future as he cannot deny.
     And you give your answer. His eyes widen; he is almost surprised. Oh, all the signs were there, but nonetheless... "I will try to make you happy," Tiernan tells you quietly. "And," there's the faint hint of a grin, joyous and growing, "to try and keep you in the style to which you have been accustomed. Should I have asked your mother for her blessing? Deus knows, your father would be unlikely to give it."
     He is unafraid of your father. The worst he could do to your lover is kill him, and that would not keep you apart. He climbs back onto the bed, moving towards you without the slightest notice of his wounds. "I have missed you," he admits. "The feel of you in my arms. Under me. Over me. On top of me. Tangled with me, your scent in my nose, your taste in my mouth. But I have missed even when there has been no touch, hearing you in my ears or my head, Io. I want ... to be connected to you. With you. Inseparably."
     He is being so honest with you. It is coming easily, now, flowing freely as he moves to your arms, tangling with you again, moving against you without self-restraint, without shame, without repression. "I miss making love to you," Tiernan whispers, mouth moving for a moment against yours. "I miss being surrounded by you. You have always been able to surround me, whether I'm in you or whether you're in me. When you fill me and you're really and truly there, with me, it is as nothing else in any world I've known. My heart swells with it. I don't want to be with you by halfway measures anymore. I will help you, yes - as much as I am capable of."
     His hands move against your skin, to your hips; and you are pulled against him so that you can feel his hardness straining in his trousers towards your own. His mouth is gentle at yours, coaxing, tugging with a pop as your lower lip is released, and one blue eye closes as in a wink. "I promise myself to you," Tiernan murmurs. "All of me. No other man will have me. My body, my mind, my spirit - they may know my friendship, but only you will be my lover. When my cock rises, it is for your disposal; whether I am filling you until I hear you whine for it, or when you make me beg for more, harder, faster. Hand in hand, Io - you have me. I am only sorry I couldn't stop for better gift wrap, but I was in a hurry."

     "I do not need anyone's leave but my own," the king replies. It isn't a boast. It is stated as simple fact. "We will not ask for permission. Besides, if they said 'No', would we not simply move forward without them?" He sees no reason for the pretense, not even out of courtesy's sake. But this is from the man who married a daughter of heaven with a handshake.
     You kiss him. He kisses you. It is the learning of mouths, one of the other, the reacquaintance of lips and not unbridled hedonism that makes the kiss wide and slow. No matter the reason, pleasure has its day as mouths couple and fingers begin to clasp around hardened flesh.
     His complexion blushes highly, the creaminess of his skin turning to a deep ruddiness from his neck down. The tattoos sparkle, shimmering stars twinkling against his sinews and shape, with every passing color.
     It is methodical, the kiss, studying and recalling every suckling twist and turn. It is slow -- the king is unhurried -- and though the fire is missing and the roiling seas, the kiss is no less profound.
     Because it comes with true intimacy. It comes with honesty. It brings forward and expresses his emotions, which run deeper than oceans. He is giving himself to you and he is asking, with his open mouth compelling even though silent, for you to give the whole of you in return.
     So subtle, but so strong the effects. When Iowerth parts the kiss, he leans back where he lies on his side flush to you but for his face, and his soul is open. His skin tone is rich, heady red of some strawberry concoction. His lavender-blue eyes are starlight in their brightness, like two captured suns in flickering purple. You can feel it against you, both of you now with your pants still on but undone. He curls his hips and his length slides against your own, such a subtle grazing. His heart pounds there where blood has thickened his flesh, flaring it until his skin cannot stretch more.
     Still, he is in no hurry. Skimming his hands along your side, Iowerth glances his touch from your waist to your cheek. "I was so jealous," he whispers. "I was certain, in fact, that you were going to leave me for him. For someone who could devote the fullness of their being, their time." He does not hide his pain, his jealous worries from you, nor those fears that kept him up late at night. "I was so certain of it. And I wondered every night... whether he was swimming... with you on his back like Orpheus."
     Iowerth smiles a little, his fingers skimming their way back downward. They dance along the thrumming of your pulse from the root of your cock to its crown. He shows you his relief. He shows you his happiness. He shows you his love for you. "When I heard you had returned, even before I read your letters, I knew that I wanted you in my life. I was not ready to surrender you to someone else."
     His hand begins to slide, stroking you, closing tightly around the head of your cock to feel it flaring beneath his touch, his palm slick with your arousal. You can feel his own excitement turning to liquid against your stomach. Gently, Iowerth comes to you again, his mouth sweeping into yours with a grand entrance befitting a high king.
     "It will be better for your shoulder," Iowerth breathes at your lips, his mouth nuzzling your own, his hardness sliding against your own, "... if you sit on my lap. I don't want to make your doctors angry with me."

Posted by rowan at February 24, 2007 11:42 PM