Sweet Chaos, Chapter One
Sweet Chaos
Ch 1: Dreaming of Slaves
Elric Saga, OMCs based upon the tale of the city of H'hui'shan in The Revenge of the Rose.
PG-13, for very dark sexual imagery.
Vyric's fingers tightened on the edge of the balcony. He gazed down upon the Plain of Imryrr, watching the roseate glow of the setting sun catch fire on spires and minarets, street fronts and bridges. To the glance the city worked as it had always worked: an Elysian construct of pleasure and beauty that the Lords of the Balance could be pleased to have erected. In actuality the city was damaged. It was poised on the brink of total destruction. It would fall to the hands of barbarians soon; it would be swallowed by the primal maw of the power of the Higher Worlds.
A steady whine began inside his mind, pain deepening as he gazed upon the city in its reddish dusk. He closed his eyes.
Behind him were the gentle day-to-day noises of a tea being set out. Occasionally, a brief and tantalizing aroma would drift to him. Lemon tea, roses, whatever perfume always clung to Cylan's body. Cylan would never call out to him to come away from the window; he would merely wait, laying out the china, arranging the flowers, as if the mere movements of his body and his electric presence would not draw Vyric back into the room of his own accord.
Sometimes, he wanted to tell his friend not to come again. His presence damaged the mind, it impaled with hot needles, it dissolved thought, it drained psyche. When he looked at Cylan, sometimes he could not breathe for the desire to possess him. It frightened him. He lay awake at night, palm pressed to his heart, and whispered, "I will not hurt him," to the arched molding of the ceiling. He did not always believe himself when he said it.
Now, he turned, smiled in return to the soft curve of Cylan's mouth. He watched the sunset paint faint colors on the edge of Cylan's wavy dark hair, and Cylan's clever fingers as they set the teapot to rest. Of course, he had just finished pouring Vyric's cup. The man possessed a dangerous sensitivity, as though he could read precisely what Vyric would do, and when.
Vyric had the sudden desire to see that hair spread out upon the floor, Cylan's head tilted back from a reddish wound of teeth-marks on his throat, panting, silk shirt open, body trembling beneath his...
He clenched his jaw and fought the image down. Forward. A step. Another. Think only of how your body moves, if it is to move gracefully, as you sit. Think about the cup. The porcelain is fragile. Don't snap it in your hand. Look at the tea. It's honey-colored, like the sun at midday. Nothing like his eyes. Sip the tea. Thank him.
Silence like this for a long time. Then, "The Council members are worried about you." Cylan's voice, light and gentle, hesitant.
"Really," Vyric made the word flat and expressionless. He had no desire to discuss this again. He told them what he believed, what he knew, interminably. They would not listen. After a moment, he sighed. "Why?" He did not mean for the word to sound as harsh as it sounded. Too deep and raw for this ornamented, silk-strewn room.
"They believe you are taking too much upon yourself. That you feel you must singlehandedly save the city. That you will burn yourself out." Cylan paused. Looking down, he whispered, "I'm worried about you."
It should have been pleasant to hear him say that, but it rang in Vyric's head, trapped with the growing pain of the headache, and stabbed his subconscious like a lance. He tasted bile and rose hips. Carefully, he set his teacup down. For a moment he could see it shatter, all white shards and his red blood, spattering Cylan's face like ejaculate.
Because he didn't speak, Cylan looked up. "Vyric?" he asked. His perfect features glowed in the dim light. Perfect lips... parted.
Suddenly, Vyric knocked the vase of roses set in the center of the table aside with the back of his hand. His lips skinned back from his teeth. He took one rose in his hands, brushed the red petals against that perfect mouth, then closed his fist around the bent red-thorned stem. Harshly, he pulled his palm outward, tearing his own skin on the thorns.
Red and green. Blood dripped, an expensive adornment, on the white table, amid the pale green cups. Cylan's eyes were wide.
"Vyric!"
He grasped Vyric's hand, pulled it to him. Vyric did not resist, but as he pulled the wound to his mouth, Vyric pressed in, smearing crimson over Cylan's mouth. Cylan gasped and pulled away.
Vyric laughed bitterly. He stood, wrenching his bleeding hand free. His thoughts were tangled. A twisted morass. This dark thing on the brink, this Prince of the Balance teetering on the edge. No, he had already made his decision. That was why the mealy-mouthed gentility of his beloved annoyed him so. He had already planned to sacrifice his soul for this city. For this dark-haired boy.
So why not press a tongue to my wound, why not be my slave, little woodlark? I will please your body as a musician pleases a harp.
But he did not say this. He said, "Leave me." And he walked to the balcony again, and bled.
Ch 1: Dreaming of Slaves
Elric Saga, OMCs based upon the tale of the city of H'hui'shan in The Revenge of the Rose.
PG-13, for very dark sexual imagery.
Vyric's fingers tightened on the edge of the balcony. He gazed down upon the Plain of Imryrr, watching the roseate glow of the setting sun catch fire on spires and minarets, street fronts and bridges. To the glance the city worked as it had always worked: an Elysian construct of pleasure and beauty that the Lords of the Balance could be pleased to have erected. In actuality the city was damaged. It was poised on the brink of total destruction. It would fall to the hands of barbarians soon; it would be swallowed by the primal maw of the power of the Higher Worlds.
A steady whine began inside his mind, pain deepening as he gazed upon the city in its reddish dusk. He closed his eyes.
Behind him were the gentle day-to-day noises of a tea being set out. Occasionally, a brief and tantalizing aroma would drift to him. Lemon tea, roses, whatever perfume always clung to Cylan's body. Cylan would never call out to him to come away from the window; he would merely wait, laying out the china, arranging the flowers, as if the mere movements of his body and his electric presence would not draw Vyric back into the room of his own accord.
Sometimes, he wanted to tell his friend not to come again. His presence damaged the mind, it impaled with hot needles, it dissolved thought, it drained psyche. When he looked at Cylan, sometimes he could not breathe for the desire to possess him. It frightened him. He lay awake at night, palm pressed to his heart, and whispered, "I will not hurt him," to the arched molding of the ceiling. He did not always believe himself when he said it.
Now, he turned, smiled in return to the soft curve of Cylan's mouth. He watched the sunset paint faint colors on the edge of Cylan's wavy dark hair, and Cylan's clever fingers as they set the teapot to rest. Of course, he had just finished pouring Vyric's cup. The man possessed a dangerous sensitivity, as though he could read precisely what Vyric would do, and when.
Vyric had the sudden desire to see that hair spread out upon the floor, Cylan's head tilted back from a reddish wound of teeth-marks on his throat, panting, silk shirt open, body trembling beneath his...
He clenched his jaw and fought the image down. Forward. A step. Another. Think only of how your body moves, if it is to move gracefully, as you sit. Think about the cup. The porcelain is fragile. Don't snap it in your hand. Look at the tea. It's honey-colored, like the sun at midday. Nothing like his eyes. Sip the tea. Thank him.
Silence like this for a long time. Then, "The Council members are worried about you." Cylan's voice, light and gentle, hesitant.
"Really," Vyric made the word flat and expressionless. He had no desire to discuss this again. He told them what he believed, what he knew, interminably. They would not listen. After a moment, he sighed. "Why?" He did not mean for the word to sound as harsh as it sounded. Too deep and raw for this ornamented, silk-strewn room.
"They believe you are taking too much upon yourself. That you feel you must singlehandedly save the city. That you will burn yourself out." Cylan paused. Looking down, he whispered, "I'm worried about you."
It should have been pleasant to hear him say that, but it rang in Vyric's head, trapped with the growing pain of the headache, and stabbed his subconscious like a lance. He tasted bile and rose hips. Carefully, he set his teacup down. For a moment he could see it shatter, all white shards and his red blood, spattering Cylan's face like ejaculate.
Because he didn't speak, Cylan looked up. "Vyric?" he asked. His perfect features glowed in the dim light. Perfect lips... parted.
Suddenly, Vyric knocked the vase of roses set in the center of the table aside with the back of his hand. His lips skinned back from his teeth. He took one rose in his hands, brushed the red petals against that perfect mouth, then closed his fist around the bent red-thorned stem. Harshly, he pulled his palm outward, tearing his own skin on the thorns.
Red and green. Blood dripped, an expensive adornment, on the white table, amid the pale green cups. Cylan's eyes were wide.
"Vyric!"
He grasped Vyric's hand, pulled it to him. Vyric did not resist, but as he pulled the wound to his mouth, Vyric pressed in, smearing crimson over Cylan's mouth. Cylan gasped and pulled away.
Vyric laughed bitterly. He stood, wrenching his bleeding hand free. His thoughts were tangled. A twisted morass. This dark thing on the brink, this Prince of the Balance teetering on the edge. No, he had already made his decision. That was why the mealy-mouthed gentility of his beloved annoyed him so. He had already planned to sacrifice his soul for this city. For this dark-haired boy.
So why not press a tongue to my wound, why not be my slave, little woodlark? I will please your body as a musician pleases a harp.
But he did not say this. He said, "Leave me." And he walked to the balcony again, and bled.