Historical Person Fic: 12th Century, 'Non et Sic'
mercurial_wit 's penchant for people drawing on each other reminded me that I started and never finished this piece quite some time ago...
Title: Non et Sic
Characters: Heloise, and if you don't know who the other person is, it's a surprise?
Time and Place: 12th Century Paris.
Rating: Um... M, to be safe.
Appertaining warnings: Teacher/student powerplay and technically underage and all that. Not advisable 20th century behavior. (Nor advisable 12th century behaviour, but for different reasons.)
Also, aside from the mild smut fun, the whole thing is a an excuse for a medievalist in-joke. Apologies to those not down with 12th century theologians.
At midsummer, the daylight lingers into the evening, and fades reluctantly, coiling its fingers around the cathedral and the civic buildings of Paris. Heloise watched the last light fade, and then put away her pen and slate. Tonight, the verses would not come. The Latin which rolled easily from her tongue stalled tonight, and she had scribbled instead fragmented verses in her vernacular, simple rhymes and assonances not strong enough to contain her feelings. She had wiped the slate clean, and started again, and wiped, and started, and wiped, and started, but to no avail.
Her corner desk in the library had the best light at this hour- a little around the corner from the library proper, it had its own large window, through which the evening light tumbled, falling, on a better day than this, on neat lines of Latin prose, on carefully structured verse, on books spread wide before her, on slates scrawled withGreek letters, and sometimes on delicately inked drawings. Tonight, only the often-emptied slate.
Heloise rose reluctantly, and slipped silently from her corner and into the library proper. Big windows, at the far end of the room; writing tables and reading desks; big shelves to one side containing her uncle's carefully hoarded collection of books. Perhaps over fifty volumes- priceless. Heloise stopped to trace a cover or two with a finger in the deepening twilight, relishing the softness of leather and the smoothness of wood.
A step behind her, and a pool of light falling over her. She turned, expecting a serving-man come to bring her a light by which to work into the night- and found him instead, candle in hand. He had come in from the street, she saw- he wore his cloak still, and his hair bound back. She had startled him, moving suddenly into the light.
'Heloise!' In his surprise, he addressed her first by her Christian name. 'My- my lady! I did not expect to find you here!'
'And why not?' she arched one eyebrow. 'Is this not my Uncle's library? Have I not worked here often until late, teacher?'
He almost smiled. 'Fair Heloise, you have caught me in error.'
'Perhaps the words I write at night are not pleasing to you, teacher.'
'Au contraire, my lady, your work is always pleasing to one who would teach you.'
'Why, then, did you not think to find me working here?'
He bowed. 'Perhaps because, most beautiful Heloise, my logic fails before your face.'
'Does it not rather fail in my absence, most renowned teacher? Have you not taught me with inerrant logic of the mysteries of theology and philosophy, when you yet neglect your classes and debates?'
'Radiant student of mine, in your absence, everything fails but the desire of you. And so you find me here tonight- in the absence of you, to write paltry praises of your grace and wit.'
'And in the presence of me?'
'Why, what would you have me do in your presence? The hour for lessons is past, O student.'
'Let not my presence prevent you from writing.'
He set his candle on the nearest desk, and seated himself in defiance of courtly propriety. As Heloise stood over him, he took out his pen and made a show of sharpening it, testing it with his finger and pricking blood. Turning, he caught her hand, and turned it palm up in his left hand.
'Most exquisite Heloise, I have no slate.'
'Most celebrated teacher, this is a library. Does not logic dictate that there must be surfaces for writing about?'
He cast his eye across the desk. 'I have my pen ready. Here, there is an inkwell-' he unstopped it '- but I have neither parchment nor slate.'
'My heart is saddened, for your words delight my mind.'
'As your beauty delights my eyes, so am I compelled-' he dipped the pen '-to write.' Gently, he touched the nib to the skin of her wrist, just left of the ticklish spot that would have her jump and shriek and ruin the spell. He drew swirls, to start the pen, and then meaningless sequences of letters.
'The pen is well cut,' he remarked, and with a gentle tug on her arm, pulled her to perch on the table before him. Holding her gaze, half in challenge and half in question, he pushed her wide sleeve back and ran his fingers over the soft inside of her arm. 'And the vellum is the finest.' And he began to write, the pen steady, barely touching the skin, tracing down her arm from the elbow to the wrist. Heloise drew her breath in quickly, fighting back the ticklish sensation. The ink ran off the pen, cold and slick, and settled on her skin. He held her arm steady, carefully steady to prevent smudging and drips.
Peering down at his work, she noted that it was remarkably second-rate poetry, and surely he knew it, but his pen was not deterred. Taking her second hand, with the same steady gaze- question, challenge, command?- he pushed up her other sleeve and resumed his work. Creativity seemed to have abandoned him- this time he wrote stock phrases, lyrics commonly sung about Paris, and the steadiness with which he held her arm was less certain, as with the fingers and thumb of his left hand he stroked her skin. If he raised goosebumps, it was most likely the sharp edge of the pen that caused it.
Both arms complete, he lay the pen aside and took hold of her just above the elbows, his hands holding her sleeves back from his work. His thumbs circled gently in the crook of her arms.
'Most eloquent student, have I stolen your words?'
'Most esteemed teacher, what need of words when words you give me?' Heloise smiled beneath her lashes.
Keeping his grip on her right arm, he picked up his pen and inked it again. 'If words were all I had to give you, fair Heloise, I would make of you a library.' Leaning closer, he put pen to her collarbone and made marks along it, flirting with the neck of her dress. His face was a breath away from her own: Heloise noted, distractedly, that he had shaved in a hurry that morning.
The pen picked up, and came back again, writing below the previous line and filling more and more of the skin between her bodice and her throat. His hand released her arm, and, with the gaze that was now more challenge and command than question, he brought his fingers up to trace her neckline. Feeling faint, Heloise let out the breath she had been holding in a rush. He parted his lips as if to catch her breath on them. Then, as light as the first touch of the pen, he touched his lips to the line of her jaw.
The ink from the pen was dripping onto her skin, and Heloise felt its clammy touch slither beneath her bodice and inwards around the curve of her breast. His fingers against her neck were warm, stroking and circling and shaping letters without ink. She could smell his breath (sweet, and faintly spicy); she could smell his clothes (smelling of fire-smoke and horses) and she could smell him beneath it all. Almost involuntarily, she leant forward and placed her forehead against his shoulder, her nose against the same hollow in his collarbone as he was stroking on hers, and breathed him in. He touched his lips to her neck- warm and delicate, his breath brushing over her skin- and she jumped at the sensation, which pushed her face into his neck, and then her lips were against his skin and it was smooth, far smoother than she had thought a man's skin would be, and her nose was full of his smells and she was kissing his skin and he shivered beneath her lips.
He dropped the pen at the touch of her tongue against his neck, and with a jagged breath that almost approached a moan, he drew back. One hand slid around her neck to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He leant toward her once more, and kissed first the right corner of her mouth, and then the left. Heloise held perfectly still, not knowing whether, if she moved, she would flee or do something unmaidenly at once.
While she had been occupied with his mouth, his pen hand had traced down her collarbone, smearing ink all over her skin and his fingers, and come to a halt over the laces of her bodice.
'Fair Heloise, I cannot continue to write, for I believe I have lost my pen.' He tapped the end of the pen, where it stuck out from the top of her dress, and returned his hand to her laces. 'If you do not object, might your humble servant retrieve it from captivity, and continue his work?'
'No,' she breathed, as he began loosening the ribbons, his calloused scribe's fingers brushing against her and smearing ink over dress and breasts. 'And Yes, Peter.'
~
Clue to the in-joke
Title: Non et Sic
Characters: Heloise, and if you don't know who the other person is, it's a surprise?
Time and Place: 12th Century Paris.
Rating: Um... M, to be safe.
Appertaining warnings: Teacher/student powerplay and technically underage and all that. Not advisable 20th century behavior. (Nor advisable 12th century behaviour, but for different reasons.)
Also, aside from the mild smut fun, the whole thing is a an excuse for a medievalist in-joke. Apologies to those not down with 12th century theologians.
At midsummer, the daylight lingers into the evening, and fades reluctantly, coiling its fingers around the cathedral and the civic buildings of Paris. Heloise watched the last light fade, and then put away her pen and slate. Tonight, the verses would not come. The Latin which rolled easily from her tongue stalled tonight, and she had scribbled instead fragmented verses in her vernacular, simple rhymes and assonances not strong enough to contain her feelings. She had wiped the slate clean, and started again, and wiped, and started, and wiped, and started, but to no avail.
Her corner desk in the library had the best light at this hour- a little around the corner from the library proper, it had its own large window, through which the evening light tumbled, falling, on a better day than this, on neat lines of Latin prose, on carefully structured verse, on books spread wide before her, on slates scrawled withGreek letters, and sometimes on delicately inked drawings. Tonight, only the often-emptied slate.
Heloise rose reluctantly, and slipped silently from her corner and into the library proper. Big windows, at the far end of the room; writing tables and reading desks; big shelves to one side containing her uncle's carefully hoarded collection of books. Perhaps over fifty volumes- priceless. Heloise stopped to trace a cover or two with a finger in the deepening twilight, relishing the softness of leather and the smoothness of wood.
A step behind her, and a pool of light falling over her. She turned, expecting a serving-man come to bring her a light by which to work into the night- and found him instead, candle in hand. He had come in from the street, she saw- he wore his cloak still, and his hair bound back. She had startled him, moving suddenly into the light.
'Heloise!' In his surprise, he addressed her first by her Christian name. 'My- my lady! I did not expect to find you here!'
'And why not?' she arched one eyebrow. 'Is this not my Uncle's library? Have I not worked here often until late, teacher?'
He almost smiled. 'Fair Heloise, you have caught me in error.'
'Perhaps the words I write at night are not pleasing to you, teacher.'
'Au contraire, my lady, your work is always pleasing to one who would teach you.'
'Why, then, did you not think to find me working here?'
He bowed. 'Perhaps because, most beautiful Heloise, my logic fails before your face.'
'Does it not rather fail in my absence, most renowned teacher? Have you not taught me with inerrant logic of the mysteries of theology and philosophy, when you yet neglect your classes and debates?'
'Radiant student of mine, in your absence, everything fails but the desire of you. And so you find me here tonight- in the absence of you, to write paltry praises of your grace and wit.'
'And in the presence of me?'
'Why, what would you have me do in your presence? The hour for lessons is past, O student.'
'Let not my presence prevent you from writing.'
He set his candle on the nearest desk, and seated himself in defiance of courtly propriety. As Heloise stood over him, he took out his pen and made a show of sharpening it, testing it with his finger and pricking blood. Turning, he caught her hand, and turned it palm up in his left hand.
'Most exquisite Heloise, I have no slate.'
'Most celebrated teacher, this is a library. Does not logic dictate that there must be surfaces for writing about?'
He cast his eye across the desk. 'I have my pen ready. Here, there is an inkwell-' he unstopped it '- but I have neither parchment nor slate.'
'My heart is saddened, for your words delight my mind.'
'As your beauty delights my eyes, so am I compelled-' he dipped the pen '-to write.' Gently, he touched the nib to the skin of her wrist, just left of the ticklish spot that would have her jump and shriek and ruin the spell. He drew swirls, to start the pen, and then meaningless sequences of letters.
'The pen is well cut,' he remarked, and with a gentle tug on her arm, pulled her to perch on the table before him. Holding her gaze, half in challenge and half in question, he pushed her wide sleeve back and ran his fingers over the soft inside of her arm. 'And the vellum is the finest.' And he began to write, the pen steady, barely touching the skin, tracing down her arm from the elbow to the wrist. Heloise drew her breath in quickly, fighting back the ticklish sensation. The ink ran off the pen, cold and slick, and settled on her skin. He held her arm steady, carefully steady to prevent smudging and drips.
Peering down at his work, she noted that it was remarkably second-rate poetry, and surely he knew it, but his pen was not deterred. Taking her second hand, with the same steady gaze- question, challenge, command?- he pushed up her other sleeve and resumed his work. Creativity seemed to have abandoned him- this time he wrote stock phrases, lyrics commonly sung about Paris, and the steadiness with which he held her arm was less certain, as with the fingers and thumb of his left hand he stroked her skin. If he raised goosebumps, it was most likely the sharp edge of the pen that caused it.
Both arms complete, he lay the pen aside and took hold of her just above the elbows, his hands holding her sleeves back from his work. His thumbs circled gently in the crook of her arms.
'Most eloquent student, have I stolen your words?'
'Most esteemed teacher, what need of words when words you give me?' Heloise smiled beneath her lashes.
Keeping his grip on her right arm, he picked up his pen and inked it again. 'If words were all I had to give you, fair Heloise, I would make of you a library.' Leaning closer, he put pen to her collarbone and made marks along it, flirting with the neck of her dress. His face was a breath away from her own: Heloise noted, distractedly, that he had shaved in a hurry that morning.
The pen picked up, and came back again, writing below the previous line and filling more and more of the skin between her bodice and her throat. His hand released her arm, and, with the gaze that was now more challenge and command than question, he brought his fingers up to trace her neckline. Feeling faint, Heloise let out the breath she had been holding in a rush. He parted his lips as if to catch her breath on them. Then, as light as the first touch of the pen, he touched his lips to the line of her jaw.
The ink from the pen was dripping onto her skin, and Heloise felt its clammy touch slither beneath her bodice and inwards around the curve of her breast. His fingers against her neck were warm, stroking and circling and shaping letters without ink. She could smell his breath (sweet, and faintly spicy); she could smell his clothes (smelling of fire-smoke and horses) and she could smell him beneath it all. Almost involuntarily, she leant forward and placed her forehead against his shoulder, her nose against the same hollow in his collarbone as he was stroking on hers, and breathed him in. He touched his lips to her neck- warm and delicate, his breath brushing over her skin- and she jumped at the sensation, which pushed her face into his neck, and then her lips were against his skin and it was smooth, far smoother than she had thought a man's skin would be, and her nose was full of his smells and she was kissing his skin and he shivered beneath her lips.
He dropped the pen at the touch of her tongue against his neck, and with a jagged breath that almost approached a moan, he drew back. One hand slid around her neck to cradle the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. He leant toward her once more, and kissed first the right corner of her mouth, and then the left. Heloise held perfectly still, not knowing whether, if she moved, she would flee or do something unmaidenly at once.
While she had been occupied with his mouth, his pen hand had traced down her collarbone, smearing ink all over her skin and his fingers, and come to a halt over the laces of her bodice.
'Fair Heloise, I cannot continue to write, for I believe I have lost my pen.' He tapped the end of the pen, where it stuck out from the top of her dress, and returned his hand to her laces. 'If you do not object, might your humble servant retrieve it from captivity, and continue his work?'
'No,' she breathed, as he began loosening the ribbons, his calloused scribe's fingers brushing against her and smearing ink over dress and breasts. 'And Yes, Peter.'
~
Clue to the in-joke