(no subject)
a sort-of-sequel to Light. as usual, betaed by jan.
(am hopelessly obsessed with baldwin.)
Reprise
It is silent, except for the hush of the night breeze that tousles the curtains and tugs at his hair. He can see the night sky through the curve of the window, and here, miles away from all he has ever known, he gazes upon the stars and wonders about stories of wishes and fallen brilliance.
The chessboard sits in front of him, ivory pieces in gentle disarray. Across from him, the King leans back and contemplates the white and black figures, eyes blinking rapidly, unconsciously drawing his robes closer as the chill of the air bites at his skin. The candles about them shed a weak, dim glow that flickers and threatens to fade; Balian watches as that luminosity is faintly mirrored in the gleaming mask, twisted into thin wisps by intricate carvings in the silver.
The game is complex, and Balian bites his lips in concentration as the King moves a knight forward to capture his pawn and check his king. Frowning, he moves his king one place to the left, and watches with a mild foreboding as the knight is moved again, once more checking him. He waits for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then chuckles lightly. Murmuring under his breath - “Must you tease me so, my Lord?” - he moves his king back, futilely attempting to escape the inevitable. In the other chair, the King’s eyes twinkle, and Balian wonders for a moment if he heard as the queen rushes in to block Balian’s path. His rook deftly captures her, but even as he collects the piece, the King’s knight topples his king and claims the victory.
Balian allows himself a muted sigh, before moving to clear the remaining pieces from the board. As he replaces the last pawn, he hears the gentle rustle of silk, and he looks up to see the King beckoning him over with a slight shift of a bandaged hand. His pulse quickens and he hears it strumming in his ears as he crouches down in front of the King, head lowered until he can make out nothing in the gloom.
“My Lord,” he says calmly, deferentially, blindly, until his chin is nudged and he looks up into the King’s eyes.
“Must you always - ” And Balian thinks he hears frustration in the soft voice even as the hand leaves his face to rest wearily on the arm of the chair. He drops his gaze to the ground again, and offers no answer; he wants to speak, but the words tangle on his tongue, and he doesn’t know anything to say except - “I am sorry, my Lord.”
The King exhales, a whisper of breath that is caught by the mask, and Balian moves closer until his cheek brushes the silk covering the King’s knee. He is flushed, from the wine earlier or the sting of the desert air, he does not know, but he can feel the warmth splayed across his face even as he turns to press a kiss onto the palm of a wrapped hand. Another, on a delicate wrist, then a third on the inside of an elbow, and Balian savours the slow burning that spreads through his veins before a hand grasps his shoulder and stops him.
The heat that suffuses Balian’s face spreads further, and he rises to his feet with as much dignity as he can muster. Again, “I am sorry, my Lord.” And he is fairly running towards the door, until a voice carries through the darkness.
“Wait.”
He is reluctant, but nevertheless slows, and stops. Behind him, he hears halting, limping footsteps that trail in the quiet and end by his side. A shaky hand pulls a lock of his hair away from his temple; he can feel the faint warmth emanating from the figure that hovers over his shoulder, and -
“For all that this is worth.”
A gentle brush of cold, metal lips across his cheek, briefly, and he stills, eyes closed, breaths harsh. The chill in the air prickles, and the room is silent as he stands in the middle, shivering in the sudden cold.
He doesn’t turn back before he leaves.
(am hopelessly obsessed with baldwin.)
Reprise
It is silent, except for the hush of the night breeze that tousles the curtains and tugs at his hair. He can see the night sky through the curve of the window, and here, miles away from all he has ever known, he gazes upon the stars and wonders about stories of wishes and fallen brilliance.
The chessboard sits in front of him, ivory pieces in gentle disarray. Across from him, the King leans back and contemplates the white and black figures, eyes blinking rapidly, unconsciously drawing his robes closer as the chill of the air bites at his skin. The candles about them shed a weak, dim glow that flickers and threatens to fade; Balian watches as that luminosity is faintly mirrored in the gleaming mask, twisted into thin wisps by intricate carvings in the silver.
The game is complex, and Balian bites his lips in concentration as the King moves a knight forward to capture his pawn and check his king. Frowning, he moves his king one place to the left, and watches with a mild foreboding as the knight is moved again, once more checking him. He waits for a moment, collecting his thoughts, then chuckles lightly. Murmuring under his breath - “Must you tease me so, my Lord?” - he moves his king back, futilely attempting to escape the inevitable. In the other chair, the King’s eyes twinkle, and Balian wonders for a moment if he heard as the queen rushes in to block Balian’s path. His rook deftly captures her, but even as he collects the piece, the King’s knight topples his king and claims the victory.
Balian allows himself a muted sigh, before moving to clear the remaining pieces from the board. As he replaces the last pawn, he hears the gentle rustle of silk, and he looks up to see the King beckoning him over with a slight shift of a bandaged hand. His pulse quickens and he hears it strumming in his ears as he crouches down in front of the King, head lowered until he can make out nothing in the gloom.
“My Lord,” he says calmly, deferentially, blindly, until his chin is nudged and he looks up into the King’s eyes.
“Must you always - ” And Balian thinks he hears frustration in the soft voice even as the hand leaves his face to rest wearily on the arm of the chair. He drops his gaze to the ground again, and offers no answer; he wants to speak, but the words tangle on his tongue, and he doesn’t know anything to say except - “I am sorry, my Lord.”
The King exhales, a whisper of breath that is caught by the mask, and Balian moves closer until his cheek brushes the silk covering the King’s knee. He is flushed, from the wine earlier or the sting of the desert air, he does not know, but he can feel the warmth splayed across his face even as he turns to press a kiss onto the palm of a wrapped hand. Another, on a delicate wrist, then a third on the inside of an elbow, and Balian savours the slow burning that spreads through his veins before a hand grasps his shoulder and stops him.
The heat that suffuses Balian’s face spreads further, and he rises to his feet with as much dignity as he can muster. Again, “I am sorry, my Lord.” And he is fairly running towards the door, until a voice carries through the darkness.
“Wait.”
He is reluctant, but nevertheless slows, and stops. Behind him, he hears halting, limping footsteps that trail in the quiet and end by his side. A shaky hand pulls a lock of his hair away from his temple; he can feel the faint warmth emanating from the figure that hovers over his shoulder, and -
“For all that this is worth.”
A gentle brush of cold, metal lips across his cheek, briefly, and he stills, eyes closed, breaths harsh. The chill in the air prickles, and the room is silent as he stands in the middle, shivering in the sudden cold.
He doesn’t turn back before he leaves.