A Song of Two Princes
Part 2: Sheets of Empty Canvas
Ephasir, Prince of Bone
Atracta, 559SR
She called to him in her hour of need. And he came. He always did. She was his shepherd through the uncertain. He was hers through the hardships and frustrations of her rank. Their warmth shared in moments of desperation, as if they never belonged to one another at all. But he did belong. He had to.
Her hair fanned out on the orange sheets. Black so daring it could shame the new moon. Her bronze flesh was bare to his eyes. Her face was full and stunning in the dim light. No sun-kissed dawn could match her beauty. He pressed into her as she beckoned, her hands clawing into the silken bed with every movement. He parted the hair from her neck and kissed there.
Citrus.
What gods had given him this privilege? What gods mocked him with this pleasure?
He held her tighter. Her back arched upward and his arms wrapped around her, unyielding in his embrace. He’d never let her go if he dared. Every bead of sweat that glistened on her form gave him reason to love her. And what right did he have to think such thoughts? She was the most powerful woman in the world. He was but a boy.
The breeze from the cloth fan above them chilled his back, sending a shiver down his body that embarrassed him. Gooseflesh prickled up his arms. And she smirked, caressing them with her palms. She drew his face down into hers. Flush lips stained with berry left a sweet taste on his tongue. Her narrow fingers snaked through his sweat-dampened hair. Her nails scraped at the back of his neck.
He had been here before, in this moment. He had seen her. He had heard her. The details were the same and he knew her vices. Ephasir kissed the gentle curves of her shoulders, forcing his free palm upon her arm as the other held her lower back. She turned to her side and cooed him on. And he complied. He enjoyed the satisfaction of control, of power, but he never could tell if it was his . . . or hers.
Her legs snaked around his. And he saw her on the docks of Atracta in his mind. Wind flowing through her jet hair. Nature giving due rights to her beauty before every man. In this moment, bodies tangled in a web of their own creation, he knew he loved her. He always had.
A great wave came over him, as it came over her, and they lay as one. He did not move, not daring to lose this moment. He wanted to hold her until the sunset, and forever after. She turned to her back and their eyes met.
“Prince of Bone,” was all she could muster behind blushing cheeks. It was all he needed.
“I love you,” he said, trembling. A bead of sweat ran from his brow and dripped from his nose, splashing on her red cheek. He cupped her face in his palm and wiped it away with his thumb.
Her breath had been lost to him. As she steadied her heart, she smiled ever so slightly, lifting her lips to his forehead. He exhaled, closing his eyes. She shifted him to her side. There he pressed his ear to her bosom. The sound was the sweetest. The beat of her heart and the life it meant. No bard could play a better melody.
The water-filled bamboo shoot next to their bed tilted, dumping its contents back into the fountain. The cord it pulled swung the cloth fan above them. Its simplicity hid the utility of it. He watched the fan sway back and forth like the oars of a mighty ship. Its red and gold honoring the greatest empire the world had ever known.
Exatas, he whispered. He held her left leg between his as he lay there. His hand snaked across her belly, ridged from years of martial arts. And to the tuft of hair that marked her womanhood. Here he left his hand to rest, going no further. He was blessed, truly, in the Eye of Taleldil.
In a hushed voice she said, “Avetas is his father.”
Ephasir kissed her breast. He didn’t have to ask. He knew she meant Taro. He felt relieved to hear the words, but was annoyed the Redeemer had his beloved. There was a great silence over them, as they both watched the fan’s steady rhythm. He could smell the sea breeze through the curtained windows. The tang of sweat mixed with perfume. And for a moment, he thought her breaths were timed to his. He played his fingers across her abdomen, tracing the shape of her body. Memorizing.
“The Redeemer is dead,” she said. Her hand gently brushed his hair.
Ephasir wanted to hold her tighter. He wanted to show his support for whatever it was that ailed her. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. Instead, he rolled his head against her chest acknowledging that he’d heard and was there for her.
“You know why, now,” she said, and she meant everything.
He thought of Taro, of their childhood. He thought of the care that was provided, the things she made them do. He could see the hippodrome. He fell from the horse, but she watched from the side and made sure he got back on it. There was no failure for Zelarri.
“Am I the last to know,” he asked.
“The first, Snowbird.” She grabbed his hand, guiding it into hers, fingers interlocking. “You can’t play these games anymore. You know where he is, and I want him home.”
“And-“
“Yes.”
His image of Taro wasn’t compatible with Avetas. How could Taro lead the Exatai? He wanted to play the possibilities through his mind, but Zelarri did not lay there a moment longer. She sat up, forcing him to support his own weight on the feather mattress. He quickly collapsed onto his back, feeling cold without her beside him. He felt her slide from the mattress, which sat inches from the floor, and could hear the patter of her bare feet on the tile.
The sound of wine pouring from a flagon filled his ears.
She returned. Her true self stood above him on the bed, a foot to both sides and a silver goblet in hand. The most beautiful woman he would ever meet. Zelarri lowered herself onto him, mounting him like a great steed. He placed his hands to her hips and held her there.
“Drink,” she said, pushing the goblet to his lips.
He sat up, face to face with her. He tried to push past her hands, to kiss her. But she pressed intently and he drank. The wine rushed over his tongue in a sensation that revitalized his senses. Had he been so deprived? He reached up, pushing the goblet higher and finishing the wine as she watched. She wiped his lips with a pass of her hand.
“Everything’s changed,” said Ephasir, eye to eye with her.
He placed his hand around her back, pulling her tight against his chest. He wanted her warmth, and more. Her body wriggled against his, and her expression told him she felt his arousal. She leaned away, reaching to the side of the bed, on the floor, where their masks were piled on top on one another. Silver and bone. He cringed at the thought of putting that mask on. They were different people, those masks. They weren’t what this was.
Her delicate hands pulled Fulwarc’s mask from the floor, brushing it clean of dust. He squeezed her waist to show his disapproval. Zelarri brought the mask between them. Ephasir saw the truth of the world in the coldness of the mask separating them.
“No,” she replied. “Not everything, sweet prince. The world stays still for none. Not me. Not you. Not him,” she said, gently caressing the mask.
He sighed.
“There are a thousand men that want this. Taro is in danger every moment we wait. And you and me,” she said.
How did she mean it? He gulped. Her lips met his. And she kissed him longer and deeper than he had ever been. His worries melted away. Their lips parted, just barely, and his eyes opened.
The mask veiled his vision. For the briefest of moments she vanished from his sight. He hated the weight of it. It tugged on his soul. It damned him.
She latched the mask around his head, her hands careful and loving. He saw her again, but he knew it was different. She still rested in his lap. Her fragrance still lingered in his nostrils. But he was again a boy, a silly boy pretending to be a prince.
Her hands forced him down on the bed as she stood. He laughed. She really was his queen. She stepped from the bed, grabbed her mask, and walked towards the table where the flagon sat. She placed the goblet on the elaborately carved tabletop, holding it still, pensive. In her other hand the silver mask hung precariously on her fingertips.
He dressed with her eyes soaking him in. She didn't speak, and it bothered him. Say the words, he thought. Just say them. But she wouldn't, not this time, not any time before. He pulled a thin cotton shirt around his torso, tying it with thin strips of cloth down the front. He took longer than he needed. He always did. He never wanted these moments to end.
He rinsed his hands under the bamboo shoot as it emptied itself into the fountain.
So cold. When he approached her, she shied away. He wrapped his hands around her waist, pressing himself into her back. She left the goblet and placed her hand on his, loosening his grip.
“Quickly,” she whispered, as she stepped away.
He nodded, though she couldn't see. He couldn't speak. Maybe he shouldn't? He saw the mask hanging at her thigh, her fingers white from her hold on it.
~~~~
OOC: I decided to split it up cause I'm taking too long.
I approve.
Remember to get in orders by this coming Saturday morning.
