Ancient Wounds pt 13
“Will you tire of me, Master?” you slowly exhaled, waltzing from our bed towards the beckoning balcony doors, flung open and welcoming the breeze that stung in the back of my eyes one December evening.
I instantly hated what you had said, the audacity of it all. How dare you.
As was common, I held to my contemplations over a cigarette at the end of our great bed. I wasn’t likely to be killed by it after all, was I?
Your impudence made me angry; I was not going to simply stand it.
“And you suppose I will?” The words fell from my lips colder than the night’s air, my chest was tight with how bitter I must have sounded.
I pretended not to watch as you walked out into the terrace, terribly naked and marble skinned with only the whitest of sheets to cover you. You were so beautiful, being angry that only served to torment me.
You turned back to look at me with a little scorn. Imp , I thought, I should strike you where you stand and see you show a lace of respect. You tested my nerve in those days, Bam, you should have known better.
I should have known better. But these were the days I had begun to hurt you. Trouble in paradise I suppose, laugh all you like, sweetheart.
I stubbed out the cigarette and went to join you. I said nothing. I merely stared up at the frighteningly clear sky.
I stared at the scattered stars, so cunningly bright in the city night. And I hated them, as usual.
What comfort was there being a lost fool on a speck of revolving dust , whose mortal forefathers had read patterns or meanings into these intangible points of cold fire? They mocked me with their unchangeable indifference.
If I grimaced I did so unknowingly.
You seemed to put distance between us as if my very presence made sick of you. You looked upon me with those brilliant sapphire eyes and I was certain that I might die.
Was I not guilt? Did I not love you and yet force you from me in unison? The complexity of it all. Honestly.
“Yes,” You said in resumption “I suppose I do think that. Although I know you tell me otherwise. But seeing as I am unchangeable, as you are wanton Sir, does that mean that so is your interest in me?”
Your words were like bile in a burning mouth to me. I wanted so much to kiss every part of you and to hit you for what you were saying, but did neither.
“What does your heart tell you?” I said calmly, rage seething my very essence but encapsulated by my distain for violent acts. I had been subject to abuse in my lifetime, where then truly was the sense in its repetition?
“My heart, Sir?” You laughed letting the sheet slip from around your muscled shoulders to your delicious waist, there was such a mockery in it. Oh, I wish you wouldn’t “a black and withered thing with no mercy is not?”
Devil’s words for an angel tongue! Sweet death how must I endure this?
“I should think not,” I said on the verge of blood-tears “withered hearts cannot adore another as I do you, and surely if yours is so ruined then so is mine”
“Is that so?” you scoffed. I wanted to hate you, but you were mine and mine was the charge to love you unconditionally.
“And you know of it” I sighed, pacing the cold stone under my bare feet to embrace you from behind. You resisted me, but I didn’t care “I love you, most assuredly, yes, I love you. For always and thereafter, Bam”
I held you until you soften to my touch; I planted many lingering kissed on your bare throat and shoulders. My tantrum-prone love, my sweet and tempered love
You told me you loved me and cried softly like a child unable to hold anger at its parent.
My darling, ever changing and ever the same like the sky itself.
Love. Who understands another love? The greater our love the more we know the burnt out loss of it, the more we heed the silence of unknowing in the face of another’s spiritual bondage…
----------------------------------------<3
I was completely in love with this saviour of mine, I often thought. My Emmanuel, my cherubic little Saint. I kept fearful in the nights my Master came not to hint at anything to do with my love, fearing discovery of what became known as our salvation.
There was something so comforting to the knowledge that the evenings my Master came there would be no forced passion, no rites of false love.
I was almost grateful for my apparent ugliness, thought over the coming months it was fast healing and my hair would grow back.
As for my Saint, he had been busy with planning our departure, and every day that I would dare meet with him he would talk frantically about tickets for departure by sea from the capital’s port.
Yet I worried for him, in the coming months Christmas came and went and his temperament became more hurried, more anxious. I told myself he was merely fearful for us both, as was wise to be in these times.
In the back of my thoughts something would tell me that was not the only thing on my lover’s crowded mind.
Times were good it seemed as winter broke into an early spring, where the pack ice would melt and the countryside would become more fertile.
The vicious and tyrannical passions of my Lord had put a stopper in our passions, which had its toll on us both.
I craved his intimacy, and chaste kissed when the sun hung low in the sky begged to become something far more carnal.
It would not always be so, I told myself, once we were on the promised new shores our lives would resume as normal.
And in my restrained lust I planned to ensure that all rooms in the ‘decadent and generous home’ Emmanuel promised me were give a proper christening.
And for the manor on which I resided currently, a bizarre turn of events had landed the marble skinned Dyre as my tutor (not of course, that I need one) for the nights I was made to work.
He spoke not frequently, but pleasantly enough. He hadn’t changed a day since the night we’d had our anti-climactic reunion, and indeed I was sure none of them had or would do in future.
Beastly Things they were. Or as Mother would have called them in her times. She had told me stories as a boy about so-called Beastly Things, men and woman, or indeed boys and girls, that gave themselves to the night and were never seen by day.
She had told me their skin runs paler than the moon, and rumour had it they feed of the blood of the living while they sleep or stagger into town late at night. At this point I may just have believed her that there were such beings that slept in graves and lived off death itself.
What folly, what old wives tales. I assured myself I was far too educated to believe in such things meant to keep a frightened little boy in his bed at night. How daft.
But what of my love and his worries, what of our salvation? It was late April when the plans would come into fruition. I had waited so long for it, for him.
I had even spent the countless months after December with his mother, who knew of my plans to join her son in his business venture (though knew not of its true nature) learning to speak the places language.
I would need it would I not? I had a flair for words, and sure enough by April I was near fluent in English (Although to me it was rather gutter-tramp to listen to, nothing as flowing or graceful as Finnish, you understand).
My mind dreamt of a beautiful house in a far away place I’d never heard of let alone seen, with lush gardens and not a care in the world. And yes, even love.
I only prayed that I deserved it enough.
------------------------------------------------------<3
I instantly hated what you had said, the audacity of it all. How dare you.
As was common, I held to my contemplations over a cigarette at the end of our great bed. I wasn’t likely to be killed by it after all, was I?
Your impudence made me angry; I was not going to simply stand it.
“And you suppose I will?” The words fell from my lips colder than the night’s air, my chest was tight with how bitter I must have sounded.
I pretended not to watch as you walked out into the terrace, terribly naked and marble skinned with only the whitest of sheets to cover you. You were so beautiful, being angry that only served to torment me.
You turned back to look at me with a little scorn. Imp , I thought, I should strike you where you stand and see you show a lace of respect. You tested my nerve in those days, Bam, you should have known better.
I should have known better. But these were the days I had begun to hurt you. Trouble in paradise I suppose, laugh all you like, sweetheart.
I stubbed out the cigarette and went to join you. I said nothing. I merely stared up at the frighteningly clear sky.
I stared at the scattered stars, so cunningly bright in the city night. And I hated them, as usual.
What comfort was there being a lost fool on a speck of revolving dust , whose mortal forefathers had read patterns or meanings into these intangible points of cold fire? They mocked me with their unchangeable indifference.
If I grimaced I did so unknowingly.
You seemed to put distance between us as if my very presence made sick of you. You looked upon me with those brilliant sapphire eyes and I was certain that I might die.
Was I not guilt? Did I not love you and yet force you from me in unison? The complexity of it all. Honestly.
“Yes,” You said in resumption “I suppose I do think that. Although I know you tell me otherwise. But seeing as I am unchangeable, as you are wanton Sir, does that mean that so is your interest in me?”
Your words were like bile in a burning mouth to me. I wanted so much to kiss every part of you and to hit you for what you were saying, but did neither.
“What does your heart tell you?” I said calmly, rage seething my very essence but encapsulated by my distain for violent acts. I had been subject to abuse in my lifetime, where then truly was the sense in its repetition?
“My heart, Sir?” You laughed letting the sheet slip from around your muscled shoulders to your delicious waist, there was such a mockery in it. Oh, I wish you wouldn’t “a black and withered thing with no mercy is not?”
Devil’s words for an angel tongue! Sweet death how must I endure this?
“I should think not,” I said on the verge of blood-tears “withered hearts cannot adore another as I do you, and surely if yours is so ruined then so is mine”
“Is that so?” you scoffed. I wanted to hate you, but you were mine and mine was the charge to love you unconditionally.
“And you know of it” I sighed, pacing the cold stone under my bare feet to embrace you from behind. You resisted me, but I didn’t care “I love you, most assuredly, yes, I love you. For always and thereafter, Bam”
I held you until you soften to my touch; I planted many lingering kissed on your bare throat and shoulders. My tantrum-prone love, my sweet and tempered love
You told me you loved me and cried softly like a child unable to hold anger at its parent.
My darling, ever changing and ever the same like the sky itself.
Love. Who understands another love? The greater our love the more we know the burnt out loss of it, the more we heed the silence of unknowing in the face of another’s spiritual bondage…
----------------------------------------<3
I was completely in love with this saviour of mine, I often thought. My Emmanuel, my cherubic little Saint. I kept fearful in the nights my Master came not to hint at anything to do with my love, fearing discovery of what became known as our salvation.
There was something so comforting to the knowledge that the evenings my Master came there would be no forced passion, no rites of false love.
I was almost grateful for my apparent ugliness, thought over the coming months it was fast healing and my hair would grow back.
As for my Saint, he had been busy with planning our departure, and every day that I would dare meet with him he would talk frantically about tickets for departure by sea from the capital’s port.
Yet I worried for him, in the coming months Christmas came and went and his temperament became more hurried, more anxious. I told myself he was merely fearful for us both, as was wise to be in these times.
In the back of my thoughts something would tell me that was not the only thing on my lover’s crowded mind.
Times were good it seemed as winter broke into an early spring, where the pack ice would melt and the countryside would become more fertile.
The vicious and tyrannical passions of my Lord had put a stopper in our passions, which had its toll on us both.
I craved his intimacy, and chaste kissed when the sun hung low in the sky begged to become something far more carnal.
It would not always be so, I told myself, once we were on the promised new shores our lives would resume as normal.
And in my restrained lust I planned to ensure that all rooms in the ‘decadent and generous home’ Emmanuel promised me were give a proper christening.
And for the manor on which I resided currently, a bizarre turn of events had landed the marble skinned Dyre as my tutor (not of course, that I need one) for the nights I was made to work.
He spoke not frequently, but pleasantly enough. He hadn’t changed a day since the night we’d had our anti-climactic reunion, and indeed I was sure none of them had or would do in future.
Beastly Things they were. Or as Mother would have called them in her times. She had told me stories as a boy about so-called Beastly Things, men and woman, or indeed boys and girls, that gave themselves to the night and were never seen by day.
She had told me their skin runs paler than the moon, and rumour had it they feed of the blood of the living while they sleep or stagger into town late at night. At this point I may just have believed her that there were such beings that slept in graves and lived off death itself.
What folly, what old wives tales. I assured myself I was far too educated to believe in such things meant to keep a frightened little boy in his bed at night. How daft.
But what of my love and his worries, what of our salvation? It was late April when the plans would come into fruition. I had waited so long for it, for him.
I had even spent the countless months after December with his mother, who knew of my plans to join her son in his business venture (though knew not of its true nature) learning to speak the places language.
I would need it would I not? I had a flair for words, and sure enough by April I was near fluent in English (Although to me it was rather gutter-tramp to listen to, nothing as flowing or graceful as Finnish, you understand).
My mind dreamt of a beautiful house in a far away place I’d never heard of let alone seen, with lush gardens and not a care in the world. And yes, even love.
I only prayed that I deserved it enough.
------------------------------------------------------<3