Elua's Children

Wed, 13 Aug 2008 13:45:26 GMT

Title: Daughter of Necthana.
Rating: R
Warnings: Cracktastic pairing.
Summary: Elua rarely looks beyond the shores of Terre d'Ange.
Spoilers: For both trilogies.

Extended author's notes at the page.

( Chapter One! Follow the fake cut. )

What would you like to see from this community?

Fri, 27 Jun 2008 18:05:29 GMT

With permission from gentilhomme, the moderator and my other half ;), I'm reaching out to the 200-something of you out there on this community -- what would you like to see, fic-wise, here? What would build an active community of writers out of this little place?

Would, say, monthly challenges inspire you? Ficathons for certain characters?

There's just so many people out there and so little fic :) With the announcement that the next trilogy will be set generations after the Phèdre & Imriel trilogies, even though I'm rereading both right now, I'm already missing the characters! Hence this attempt to revitalize the community...

Think about it. And let us know.
-- gentilhomme & friggasfemme

Fic: Signale

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 18:00:55 GMT

title: Signale
rating: R
pairing: Phèdre/Hyacinthe, of a sort
warnings: Some cruelties our anguissette has been subjected to are mentioned in passing.
summary: All knowledge is worth having, and all words have a power of their own.
spoilers: Just for the first trilogy, Dart-Avatar.
author's note: I'm re-reading all six books, and have just gotten past Hyacinthe's great sacrifice in Kushiel's Dart, which has broken my heart all over again and motivated me to write this.

*

When first inked upon my very first contract, the one between Childric D'Essoms and myself, it was a talisman against harm and a child's attempt to provoke her master. Delaunay had not taken my bait truly, though my choice had surprised him, and Lord D'Essoms, for all his exquisite cruelty never coaxed the word from my lips. No, not even when he took up the poker did he win my signale; it had been his lips loosened by the burning of my flesh, not mine own.

To this day, that precious word has been torn from my lips only by Melisande, and only the twice, but it remained in my patron-contracts. 'Hunting hyacinthes' became a great peace-time quest for many a noble lordling or lady, but none achieved it. For after that fateful crossing, when the Master of the Straits stole my Hyacinthe and truncated his Lungo Drom, the word held no safety. It became a bitterest reminder that I had not yet managed to free my friend from his bondage, a rebuke most harsh and a spur to drive me ever onward.

I mouthed it silently as the Mahrkagir introduced me to the depths of my own depravity and carried it ever upon my lips until the Name of God took its place and gave me back my friend.

Let any who doubt the power of words hear my story and learn the truth of it.

Fic: Inkstained

Thu, 26 Jun 2008 17:39:25 GMT

title: Ink-stained
rating: R
pairing: Sidonie/Imriel
warnings/summary: If you read Kushiel's Mercy, you know what happened to the Dauphine. This is a little look at the aftermath.
spoilers: Set post-Kushiel's Mercy. Spoiler-heavy for that book.

*

Her skin itches with it sometimes: the ghost of ink still dark in her blood, behind her eyes. Though stripped from her very skin by her one true love and its darkness covered with the rays of a golden sun, she can still feel it and it makes her flesh crawl with revulsion.

Astegal's death at her hand -- hers and Imriel's -- was supposed to put an end on it. Her marque had been conceived to banish the darkness that had been etched upon her, but that was the funny thing about sunlight: it is only when the sun shines that shadows are cast, and the shadow of Carthage is long in her.

Relief comes from the kiss of the lash between her shoulders and Imriel's voice, calling her his Sun Princess and promising her always and always and always. Though memories haunt her and she supposes they will overlong, she has other memories to heal and spends each day and every night making new ones to erase Astegal and his touch. That will be her revenge wrought in its fullness, for the Carthaginian had sought immortality: one day, she will forget him. It is a promise writ in ink and in blood. She will forget.

Fic: Reflected Warmth

Wed, 25 Jun 2008 04:41:07 GMT

title: Reflected Warmth
rating: R
pairing: Sidonie/Imriel implied, Sidonie/Maslin
warnings: N/A
summary: if you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with?
spoilers: Set during Kushiel's Justice, but based on information confirmed in Mercy.

*

He moves over her, steel beneath his skin like all of Camael's scions, and she buries her face in his neck. She is gold like sunlight and he is as pale and silver as the envious moon, waxing and waning and coming to fullness through the reflection of her warmth. Sidonie de la Courcel closes her eyes, pretending that the pale throat against her eyelashes belonged to another, wishing that the curtain of moonlight hair against her skin was black as night.

But it is not. Her heart is miles away in Alba and she knows not if he will return. Doralei surely warms his bed as Maslin warms her own and she wonders... wonders if he thinks of her in the warmth of another's body. This yearning for someone as distant as the stars does not wax and wane like the moon: it is constant. Constant as Cassiel, ever by Elua's side. Love as thou wilt: the greatest of the teachings left by the Blessed one.

It should have been simple. But it is not.

FIC: Longest Time

Tue, 27 May 2008 16:48:11 GMT

Title: Longest Night

Rating: R

Pairing: Delaunay/Alcuin

Warnings: male/male sex

Summary: With Melisande, Phèdre has her longest night. With Delaunay, Alcuin has his.

Author Notes: I am utterly livid about the lack of Alcuin fanfiction. LIVID. So I wrote some. It made me feel better. This is my first Kushiel fic, so it may or may not suck. If it does, hopefully it will get better over time. Enjoy!

_ _ _

I studied many things the winter that Delaunay set me on the path to the mystery of the Master of the Straits. Ancient Alban epics, treaties so brittle they crumbled under my careful fingers, books from as near as Siovale and as far as Tiberium. I pored over texts in D’Angeline, Cruithine, Caerdicci and, with a translating key provided by Delaunay, Habiru.

How many hours did I spend in that library, hunched over until my eyes ached and my fingers grew calloused from note-taking? Too many, too many to count, though like as not it was less than my exhausted mind fooled me to thinking. Yet of a surety, there were days when I entered the library before dawn and stayed long after the sun had set, occasionally waking to find a book still open beneath my cheek, a blanket draped over my shoulders, lines of text imprinted into my fair skin.

But I persisted, futilely seeking knowledge far beyond by reach. Delaunay had trusted me with a glimmer of insight into his plans, into the vast intelligence I tried so hard to understand. His trust inspired me, though, kept me going through the long nights and the cricking necks. More than once I had looked up from one ancient text or another to see him watching me, the barest hint of a smile playing around his eyes. And that smile, that shadow of a grin, brought a flush to my cheeks, causing me to duck my head down back to my work. Years of training with the finest courtesans in the City of Elua, and still Delaunay’s smile could reduce me to a blushing virgin.

How irony amuses.

It was on one of these late nights, as I translated lines of a Cruithine poem, that Delaunay rapped on the library door. I looked up, startled, to meet his amused eyes. “My lord,” I said, pushing back my chair.

He waved me back down. “I hope I’m not interrupting,” he said, coming to lean over my work, settling one hand on my shoulder.

My skin tingled at his touch and I shook my head. “No, my lord. No interruptions.” I handed him my translation, watching his profile as he scanned it, his topaz-flecked eyes skimming my hastily-scrawled words.

“Very good,” he said, setting it down at last. “Though I have seen you write a fairer hand.”

I felt my cheeks flush. “I was rushing—“

“It wasn’t a reprimand.” Now he did smile, barely, his eyebrow quirking in bemusement. “The translation is excellent. I’d no idea you’d improved so much.”

“My lord is too kind,” I murmured, taking back the page and lifting my pen once more.

He was silent for a few moments and I thought he would go, turning my eyes back to the poem and making notations on a troublesome line here and there. But then I felt his fingers in my hair, playing lightly with the white strands. I closed my eyes, enjoying the touch. Contact between us had been scarce since the night I had my marque completed, when I pulled him down to me and didn’t let him go until morning. The distance wasn’t uncomfortable, but it was there nonetheless, and it pained me—not that I would ever let him know. “Alcuin,” he murmured, and I turned back to him.

“My lord?”

Our eyes met. There was something there, a crackling spark. I almost reached for him. Almost.

He withdrew his hand. “I’ve received an invitation,” he said abruptly, leaning against the table.

I ran a hand through my hair, pushing aside the flash of hurt that threatened to push its way onto my face. “An invitation?”

“From Cicilie Laveau-Perrin,” he said, half-absently, picking up another page of notes. “To her Midwinter Masque. Since Phèdre is already contracted for the Longest Night, I thought you’d like to accompany me.”

I glanced up at him. His face was impassive, something—something—hidden in his eyes, too well shielded for me to recognize. “As a member of your household, my lord?” I asked carefully, “or as a Servant of Naamah?”

It surprised him, I think, that I asked it so bluntly, but he smiled. “That remains to be seen,” he said, placing my notes back on the table. “I’ll send word to the clothier to discuss costumes.” I nodded and he reached out, tracing his fingertips down my cheek, his touch light as the brush of a feather on gossamer silk. And then he was gone, leaving me still and staring, the warmth of his fingers still lingering on my skin.

_ _ _

We went to Eglantine House.

They are experts in craft, the adepts of Eglantine, of all types of art—from the spoken to the written word, the delicacies of song, and, of course, the subtleties of clothing. Fashion is ever-changing in the City—D’Angelines are nothing if not fickle in their clothing fads—and with the Longest Night approaching Eglantine House bustled with commissions, bolts of fabric and sketched designs tossed about here and there in perfectly organized chaos.

It was Gherin nó Eglantine who saw us, an old friend of Delaunay’s who made time in his schedule for a fitting and consultation. He gave us each the kiss of greeting, bidding us sit in his salon while he briefly reviewed several sketches with his apprentice, a fiery redhead with a scar curling her upper lip—I caught her name, Favrielle, in the snippets of their conversation.

At last Gherin returned to us, clapping his hands. “So!” he exclaimed, sitting down on the couch across from us. “Tell me, my lords, what it is you had in mind. Something relating you to one another, I trust?”

“Yes,” Delaunay said smoothly, “but preferably nothing too...” he glanced sidelong at me; I raised my eyebrows, amused. “Outrageous,” he finished, and I bit my lip to suppress a laugh. It was true—I was no Phèdre, to revel in the extraordinary. Simplicity, as the auction for my virgin-price had shown, suited me.

Gherin worried at a plump lower lip, reclining in his seat and regarding us contemplatively. “Given your reputation, my lord,” he said to Delaunay, “I would go with something classic. Easily recognizable, but not obviously so. And given the boy’s coloring...” he trailed off, eyeing me thoughtfully; I returned his gaze unperturbed. “Though you may not like it, my lord.”

Delaunay raised his eyebrows. “I’ll be the judge of that,” he said calmly, shifting to sling an arm over the back of the couch. His fingertips brushed my shoulder and sent a shiver down my spine, and I closed my eyes to keep my body still. “What are you thinking?”

Gherin’s eyes shifted from me to Delaunay. “Tiberius and Antinous.”

Delaunay drew in a quick breath and I glanced at him, confused. The tale of the Tiberian Imperator who loved the shepherd boy was an old and common one, yet there was no mistaking the pain that flashed across his features. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by a cynical smile. “I like it,” he said casually, reclining back. He glanced at me. “What do you think?”

“My lord,” I said honestly, “if you like it, I will by all means oblige.”

He regarded me for a moment, something unreadable in his expression. And then he turned to Gherin nó Eglantine, smiled, and said, “Well, then, Gherin, we will leave you to your work.”

_ _ _

There is a reason, in the City of Elua, that Gherin nó Eglantine is hailed as a genius. He is an artist, of a surety, and the human body is his canvas, fabric and threads his paints and brushes. I had seen his work before; the way he took a tired tale and brought it to life with subtle folds and drapery, color and dye. Of all the clothiers of Eglantine House he is the best, and I daresay he knew it; there was a quiet confidence to him, a sense of superiority lurking behind his genuine smile.

But he was the best, and so it was that on the evening of the Longest Night I found myself in front of the mirror in my chamber, staring breathless at my reflection, at the character who was me and yet not.

The costume itself was simple, as such things go: a short toga of white silk under a blue-and-green shepherd’s robe. The mask was plain as well, half-faced, covering my eyes and leaving the rest of my face bare. The eyes of the mask were limned in black, representing the charcoal Tiberian shepherds use to guard against the sun’s rays, and I picked up a piece of kohl to outline my own eyes, darkening my pale lashes and making them stark against my skin. I leaned over the mirror, sliding the mask over my face and reaching down to pick up the slim wooden staff that accompanied the costume.

There, and it was complete. Turning once more to the mirror I felt myself transformed, no longer Alcuin nó Delaunay but instead Antinous da Tiberium, a slender shepherd boy, innocent, smiling, peaceful with an underlying hint of sensuality. “Ah, Antinous,” I murmured, reaching out a hand to touch my reflection. “We are not so different, you and I.”

“How so?”

Delaunay’s voice from the doorway startled me, and I whirled to face him, shepherd’s robe swirling.

He stood lounging against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. He was resplendent as the Imperator Tiberius, in a long white toga trimmed in violet and gold and belted at the waist, a scarlet cloak clasped around his neck. Atop his head sat a gilded helmet with a brilliant red plumage of feathers, the faceguard coming down to form his mask, shielding all but his eyes from view from the nose up. In one hand he held a sprig of wildflowers, and it was this he held out to me. “I thought you could tie these to the staff. Many of the shepherds do so, to distinguish one from another. A personal touch.”

Never mind that the costume had been commissioned specifically for me and was in and of itself a personal touch—the gesture touched me. I took the flowers from him, binding them to the top of the staff with a bit of twine. “They’re beautiful, my lord. Thank you.”

Delaunay smiled, a real smile, his eyes crinkling ever-so-slightly at the corners as he reached out, touching a stray lock of hair out of my eyes, plucking another flower from a vase on my dressing-table and slipping it behind my ear. “Perfect,” he murmured, our eyes meeting through our masks. “’A lovely farm-boy, with an angel’s face and love in his eyes’.”

He quoted the poem that told Antinous’ story, and I knew it, but nonetheless I smiled, inclining my head to him; he lifted my chin with his hand. For a moment I thought he would kiss me and I nearly leaned forward, but he drew back, adjusting his helmet with a steady hand. “Come,” he said, extending his hand for mine. “You know how Cecilie hates to be kept waiting.”

I slipped my hand into his, feeling the warmth as his fingers curled around mine.

He led me outside to the waiting coach, and did not let go of my hand.

_ _ _

In addition to being one of the City’s most successful courtesans and highest fashionistas, Cecilie Laveau-Perrin knew very, very well how to entertain. Her house already bustled when we arrived, filled near to bursting with D’Angeline noblefolk, costumed and masked with all the lavish stylishness that the City of Elua is so known for.

“Anafiel!” Cecilie greeted Delaunay with a kiss, laughter shining in her blue eyes. She was dressed as Gavrielle nó Cereus, the Night Court adept who made her marque and rose to become, through marriage, the Queen of Terre d’Ange. “You look the perfect conqueror, you beautiful boy. And Alcuin!” She took my hands in both of hers, and I leaned down to kiss her. “And who are you tonight, my dear?”

“Antinous da Tiberium, my lady,” I said, squeezing her hands and smiling.

She looked surprised. “Indeed?” Her eyes flickered to Delaunay, who inclined his masked head very slightly. Cecilie laughed, drawing me down to kiss me once more, curling her hand over my cheeks. “Ah, Anafiel,” she said, wiping tears from her eyes. “I am happy for you.”

Confused, I started to ask what she meant, but another guest arrived and she took her leave of us. I remained, staring at Delaunay, who stood smiling his damnably amused smile. “My lord,” I began, but he cut me off, stopping a passing adept and lifting two glasses of cordial from his tray.

The boy ducked his head in a bow, golden hair spilling from beneath his mask. “Joie,” he murmured, not meeting our eyes. I guessed him to be from Cereus House—they are trained, there, to serve with grace and subservience, every carefully-set angel of their bodies taught from childhood so as best to please. Phèdre had the same careful grace.

Delaunay nodded at him, but his eyes were fixed on me. “Joie,” he said to the boy, and handed me a glass. “And joy to you.”

He clinked his glass against mine and we drank; I felt the sweet burn of the cordial down my throat, warming me from the inside out. “Joy,” I whispered, holding Delaunay’s gaze. “Joy to you on the Longest Night.”

What might have happened in that moment, had Gaspar Trevalion not come between us, I will never know. But he was there nonetheless, his eyes glinting behind his mask. “Anafiel!” He embraced Delaunay, grinning. “Imperator Tiberius, is it?” He clapped Delaunay’s shoulder. “Good choice, man, though you’re a bit slim for it.” He turned to me. “And here is your Antinous, no doubt?” I smiled at him and he chuckled, leaning down to kiss me in greeting. “Very nice,” he said when we parted, winking at me. “Tell me, boy, now that your marque is made, will you withdraw from Naamah’s service?”

“Most likely, my lord.” I tilted my head toward him, allowing my hair to fall over my shoulder, trying to channel some of Phèdre’s mischievousness. “Unless I receive an offer I can’t refuse.”

Gaspar laughed aloud. “Is that so? Anafiel, you’ve trained him too well, look at the spark in his eyes!” He clasped my hand. “How’s this for an offer, boy? I’ll treat you to a dance, in exchange for a kiss.”

I laughed, how could I not? He was drunk, and happy with it, the flush of wine pinking his cheeks. “I accept, my lord Trevalion, and will gladly keep my end of the contract.”

Out of the corner of my eye, as Gaspar led me out to the floor, I saw Delaunay watching us. I smiled, and let Gaspar spin me into the dance.

How many people I danced with that night, I could not say. I lost sight of Delaunay between the second waltz and the first gavotte, spinning out of a woman’s arms and into a man’s and back again, the faces blurring into a swirling collage of laughter and joie.

It is the last dance that I remember, and that dance alone, for I found myself in Delaunay’s arms.

The music had not yet started; the last chord of the previous dance still lingering in the air. I turned too quickly, still applauding the musicians, and felt a hand on my hip, catching me as I spun and nearly lost my balance. Hands circled in my waist, steadying me, and I looked up to meet Delaunay’s eyes.

His voice, when he spoke, was softly tinted with amusement, his eyes sparkling behind his helmet-mask. “Alcuin.” My name had always sounded more beautiful in his voice. “Have you been drinking?”

“A glass of cordial, my lord.” He raised his eyebrows. “Maybe two,” I amended, and he chuckled, moving to release me.

A chord sounded in the quiet, a lingering harp-string, and I caught his hand. “A dance, my lord,” I said, holding him. “Just one?”

His expression shifted, a nigh-imperceptible change over his features. Someone who did not know him well would not have seen it. I, who had watched him for years, recognized the spark in his eyes for what it was.

Desire.

And it was gone a moment later, replaced by his usual control. “One dance,” he said, acquiescing, his fingers closing on mine. “For you.”

We moved onto the floor as the music began in earnest. It was a Serenissiman dance, the taengo; a dance of sensuality, of touch, of desire veiled in calculated steps and snapping spins. “Did you know,” he murmured, slipping one arm around my waist and drawing me close, “that this dance was once banned from La Serenissima?”

I wrapped one arm around his neck, took his other hand in mine. “No, my lord. I didn’t know.”

“They considered it—“ the music moved into a sharp crescendo, and I moved against him, our bodies pressing close, “—too sensual.”

“It is a sensual dance, my lord,” I murmured, trailing the fingers of one hand over his cheek as the music began to swell once more. His breath hitched; I felt the jump of his pulse beneath my fingertips. “But beautiful in its sensuality.”

He spun me away from him, surprising me with the quickness of the motion, and then drew me back into his arms once more. “Yes,” he said softly, his eyes intense as they bored into mine. “Beautiful.”

The music faded, leaving us pressed together. There was applause around us, voices chattering, the strains of the next dance already beginning to fill the air. It may as well have been silent, for all the care we took in our surroundings. Delaunay held my gaze with heat burning in his eyes; heat, yes, and somewhat else. For a long time he did not speak, and I could only helplessly up at him, clasped in his arms.

And when he spoke it was soft, his voice utterly gentle, his fingers lifting my chin. “Alcuin,” he murmured; I trembled under his touch like a leaf in the autumn wind. “My Antinous.”

I kissed him then, shamelessly in front of everyone at Cecilie’s masque, standing on tiptoe to reach his lips.

And this time, he did not try to push me away.

_ _ _

Had it not been for the presence of a good many peers of the realm, I daresay he would have taken me there on the dance floor. Of a surety, the desire was there; I could feel it in his gaze in the heat of his blood beneath his skin, more than a decade’s worth of long-pent longing, disguised as fatherly affection.

He drew me away, outside, back into the coach, instructing the driver to bring us home. And then he pulled me into his arms.

Of that kiss, I can barely speak. There was little of Naamah’s art in the joining of our lips, the meshing of our teeth and tongues, but what it lacked in niceties it made up for in passion. His tongue slipped into my mouth, probing, gentle yet determined, his fingers twining into my hair and pulling my mask aside. I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him closer, deeper, closing my eyes against the intensity of the desire that flooded my veins.

Where one kiss ended, another began, until they ran together continuously. It seemed to last forever and not long enough; I felt hot and cold, too much emotion, too much feeling at once. I clung to him, reeling, falling upward into his mouth, into his hands, dying a thousand deaths with every touch of his fingers, his tongue. I was reduced to trembling, letting him hold me, feeling the sinewy strength of his hands, the underlying muscles in his arms.

He released me when the coach stopped, drawing away and running his hands through my hair, cupping my cheeks in his hands and pressing a feather-light kiss to my lips. I felt his breath whisper over my skin as he exhaled a sigh and felt that more keenly than the passion-filled gasping of the moment before.

I’ll never know how we made it inside, joined as we were, our arms and legs intertwined, lips half-meshed. But somehow we managed, and it was almost graceful in the stumbling, tender in the frenzied passion.

We were halfway out of the parlor when he stopped me, pushing me back against the wall, his lips tangling with mine once more. In all my years with him I had never known him to do anything less than perfectly; he fumbled that night, kissing me, all of his cultured finesse gone in the fire of desire, the heat of arousal. Breaking the kiss, I saw pure longing burning in his eyes, hot and untamed, and I drew away, reaching up to cup his face in my hands.

“It’s the Longest Night, my lord,” I whispered. “We have time to be slow.”

Surprise flickered in his eyes, desire giving way to something else, something I couldn’t quite place. His lips parted, very slightly, and I stood on tiptoe to kiss him.

If I say that that kiss was only slow, it would be like saying Ysandre de la Courcel was only blonde. It was more than that, Elua, so much more; slow, yes, but also gentle, tender, easy and yet no less arousing for it. His tongue slipped past my parted lips, seeking, and I let him, but I held him back when he tried to pull me closer, keeping our bodies apart.

I’d used none of Naamah’s art, that night I revealed my marque. That night had been passion only, I seeking, he providing. We are D’Angeline; it was enough. But what arts I had withheld then, I used now, drawing him closer even as I held him at arm’s length, making him want more, more of my touch, more of me. Reluctant or no, I had been Naamah’s Servant; I proved it that night. I unfastened his toga with deft fingers, unwrapping the long length of fabric, letting it slide through my grip to pool at his feet. He stood naked before me, his phallus straining against his linen undergarments, and this time I let him pull me in to kiss me, feeling his hardness against my own.

He groaned aloud when I knelt for the languisement, freeing his phallus and taking it into my mouth. I worked him with lips and teeth and tongue, relishing every gasp, every shudder, every murmured word of passion or encouragement. His hands threaded into my hair, holding my head firmly in place, and I smiled around his shaft, scraping lightly with my teeth to be rewarded when his gingers tightened in my hair. I moved one hand up, pressing against the skin on the back of his testes, and he spent himself with a groan, hips thrusting as I swallowed reflexively, letting his phallus slip from my lips.

Delaunay was still and silent a long time, his breathing the only sound. He loosened his grip on my hair but kept his hands there, stroking gently, tender in the wake of climax. I leaned my head forward to rest against his thigh, pressing a light kiss against his flushed skin. “My lord,” I said softly, “what are you thinking?”

He cupped my chin in one hand, tilting my face up. I met his eyes, still passion-dark, and let him take my hands and draw me up. “That I never intended this,” he said, pressing my knuckles to his lips. I shivered under the touch of his breath over my skin. “After Rolande, I told myself I could take lovers...but never another like him.”

There was pain in his voice; I, trained to listen, heard it plainly. I lowered my head, my vision obscured by my hair. Tears stung at my eyes, and I wondered why—my pain, or Delaunay’s? “My lord,” I whispered, “I didn’t mean—“

His fingers tightened around mine, and I fell silent, looking up once more. He released one of my hands to brush his thumb over my eyelids, forcing the tears to fall. “I never intended it, but it happened nonetheless. You were to be my pupil only, my eyes and ears...I never expected this.” He gave a low chuckle, shaking his head. “All of my cunning, and I never saw it.” He leaned forward, his lips brushing my cheek, kissing away the tears; I felt his breath whisper against my skin. “Alcuin...”

My name, only, and yet it fell from his lips like a blessing, a prayer. I felt a rush of emotions, the strongest among them love, Blessed Elua, love at its pure finest. I saw it reflected in his eyes as he looked down at me, a love far deeper than that of a mentor for his bond-servant, the love I’d been praying for for years in the beds of others. I felt a fresh stream of tears spill down my cheeks and over his fingers. “I love you,” I whispered, and heard my voice shaking. “By Blessed Elua and his holy precept, I love you.”

Delaunay said nothing, only leaned down and kissed me.

It was sweet, ah, Elua, sweeter than any I’d given or received in Naamah’s service. His lips moved over mine with a lover’s tenderness and a beloved’s care, and I wrapped my arms around his neck, drawing him closer, falling into him, knowing he’d catch me. His arms found my hips and moved lower, cupping under my buttocks. He lifted me effortlessly and I twined my legs around his a child in his hands. It was strange, being above him, yet he tilted his head back, keeping our lips together and holding the kiss as he carried me to his chamber. He laid me on the bed with excruciating tenderness, leaning over to kiss my jaw, and I slipped my fingers through his half-tangled braid, pulling him down against me.

One always maintains a certain amount of control as a Servant of Naamah. Even Phèdre, as yielding as they come, knows she has some authority in her assignations, with the finality of her signale.

I gave up any semblance of control that night; so, I think, did Delaunay. I employed all of Naamah’s arts with no thought of reciprocation or reward, kissing my way up and down his body, feeling the heat of desire flush his skin once more. And he showed me that desire, shamelessly, running his fingers over every contour of my body, kissing my masque from finial to base, turning me gently and bending to perform the languisement until I cried out and clung to him, begging.

I wept at our joining, the gentle, loving tenderness of it, arching against him with tears in my eyes. He leaned down, kissing me in time with his thrusts, whispering meaningless nothings into my ear, against my lips. He moved inside me with practiced ease, his face a mask of pleasure, yet his eyes were clear, somber in their softness, but there was light there as well, a spark I had only seen when he spoke of Rolande. I wondered, with a pang, who it was he was making love to, me or Rolande’s memory?

As if reading my thoughts, Delaunay’s body stilled above mine, and he lifted his head, meeting my eyes. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me—a longtime pupil, a Servant of Naamah, or somewhat more, a lover, a friend, a consort. He lifted a hand to cup my cheek, I felt his fingers trembling. “Would you have me say it?” he asked, stroking my damp hair from my skin.

His thumb met wetness; I was still crying. “I told you, my lord,” I whispered, “everything I have done has been for you. If this is all you need, so be it.” I reached up to him, my fingers brushing his face. “I don’t think I’ve ever asked you for much, my lord, but I’ll ask this—don’t say it, if it isn’t true.”

Delaunay laughed, a true laugh, leaning down to kiss me. “Ah, love,” he said against my lips, “how did someone so conniving as me raise someone so beautiful?” I opened my mouth, uncertain whether or not he wanted a reply, and he kissed me again, harder this time. “I do love you,” he said when we parted, I breathless, he smiling. “Likely more than I have any right to, considering what I’ve put you through over the years, but nonetheless...” He shook his head, dropping his forehead down to rest against mine. “And if it weren’t for Phèdre, that damnable fool of an anguissette, I’d never have realized it.”

I laughed through my tears, the truth of his words sinking in. “If you only knew what it cost her to say it, my lord.” I couldn’t help feeling curious, squinting up at him through my hair. “What exactly did she say?”

“Ever curious.” He toyed with a lock of my hair, curling it idly around one finger. “Only that you’d be ill-suited for the Casseline Brotherhood, what with your love for me.” He smiled, laughter glinting in his eyes. “Although it would be a beautiful thing to behold, you wielding Casseline daggers.”

I smiled up at him, eyeing him through my lashes. “I’m trained to handle daggers of a different sort, my lord.” I squeezed him within me and a flash of uninhibited pleasure flitted across his face. I chuckled in spite of myself. “You raised a Servant of Naamah, my lord. Are you surprised—ah!” He moved inside of me, deeper, sending a shock of pleasure up my spine. “Oh, there,” I gasped, and he leaned down, rocking against me, silencing me with a kiss.

I cried out, before the end, breaking the kiss and burying my face in his shoulder as he thrust into me, his breathing ragged. It was more than pleasure, more than love; it was some combination of the two, heightening my senses, my emotions, my desires. I felt his thrusts quicken, losing their rhythm but none of their accuracy. I arched against him, gasping, Naamah’s serene face dancing before my closed eyelids, beyond her, Elua, smiling.

In my ear, voice breathless, Delaunay whispered that he loved me, his fingers clenching on my hips, rigid within me. I spent myself with a wordless cry, pressing my lips against his neck, and I felt his release an instant later, spilling hot and fast inside me as he groaned, his lips seeking mine.

Afterward, he held me, raining soft kisses over my skin. I caught his hand in mine, lacing our fingers together, marveling at the simple contrasts in our skin. Delaunay was by no means dark, but against my pale skin, he seemed so. His breathing was soft, easy; I made myself speak. “My lord?”

He murmured a reply against my hair.

“In the morning,” I chose my words carefully, “what am I to you?”

For a long time he was silent, and I wondered if he’d fallen asleep. But then he spoke, his fingers tightening on mine. “I don’t know.” It was strange to hear those words from his lips, from someone who had always seemed so knowing, so sure. “If you’re asking whether or not I’ll declare you my consort, the answer is no.” He sighed, I felt his eyes close, his lashes brushing my skin. “But what you are, Alcuin, is my second chance at happiness. And mayhap, someday, more.” He pressed his lips to the back of my neck, at the very finial of my marque. “Is it enough?”

I thought of Rolande de la Courcel, Delaunay’s first love, long-buried and never forgotten. I thought of his daughter Ysandre, an innocent girl surrounded by smiling traitors. I thought of Phèdre, struggling with her destructive love for her patrons, past and present.

I thought of the utter simplicity that was the love I bore for him, the clear, unworried understanding that I’d always had, even before I knew what it meant. I thought about how, as much as his touch set me to trembling and his kiss set me aflame, I could be happy simply to see him smile. “Yes, my lord,” I murmured. “It’s enough.”

He sighed, then, shifting against me, his arms around my waist. “Good.”

Tomorrow morning, Phèdre would be the center of attention. She would come home with her scowling Casseline and her dreamy eyes, like as not brimming with dazzling accounts of her Longest Night with Melisande Shahrizai.

But tonight, there was peace, and quiet. Tonight I lay safe and sated in a lover’s arms.

Tonight, Anafiel Delaunay loved me.

Smiling, warm, and happier than I’d been in a long time, I slept.

_ _ _

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The Gathering Light

Tue, 04 Mar 2008 14:06:05 GMT

Title: The Gathering Light
Rating: M
Pairing: Imriel/Lucius
Notes: I took some liberties with the three days before Imriel leaves Lucca after the seige so I could make this scene happen. I finished the book yesterday and could get nothing constructive done in my life until I wrote this.

Had circumstances been different, I probably wouldn't have done it. Despite having survived and fought in the seige of Lucca, in many ways I was still a coward. After that, Lucius deserved better though, and so I went to him the night before we were to leave. I daresay he was expecting it, and there was something charming about his quiet patience in the matter, at least in contrast to the nervous desire he had expressed when we had first met. I had been so awkward. But then, I had not expected this.

"I was hoping you'd come," he said.

I started to speak and stopped myself. Then I shook my head. I owed him better than that. "I had to find my courage."

"After all this?"

I nodded and sat on his bed without invitation. He watched me quietly, as if he had acquired not just tactical skill and authority from his recent possession, but some measure of wisdom as well.

"Don't take this the wrong way," I said, "but as terrifying as this has all been --"

"Hardly your worst fears," he finished for me quietly.

"Yes. But... well, neither are you." I looked up at him with a grin.

He laughed softly and waivered for a moment, wondering, it seemed, if he should come closer. Considering I was sitting on his bed, it was an odd situation I'd put him in.

"Will you tell me the rest of the story?" he asked after a moment.

"If you'll tell me the rest of this one," I blurted out.

He nodded and it seemed less to me than to some internal consideration.

"Right," he said and came to crouch before me. All I could hear was the echo of Gallus Tadius in it. It made me smile anyway.

"I am ever your friend, Montreve."

"I know."

Lucius grabbed my face and kissed me just as he had on the morning the seige ended. Somehow it was as clear and bright and pleasant as it had been then, and yet, also, more surprising. We were not about to head off to our presumptive deaths; nor did the idea of desiring Lucius seem as foreign to me as it had then. Perhaps though, strangest of all, was his presence below me; it didn't force me to take some charge of the matter so much as it called to my nature to do so. I grabbed Lucius' face as surely as his hands remained on mine.

The truth of my desire, not that I had doubted it, not really, became clear. I wanted to posess Lucius and I understood that was all he had ever wanted from me. In that, there wasn't much I could find to fear, and I wondered as my lips forced his open and my hands curved along his jaw how that hadn't occured to me sooner. Darsanga, I understood then, had left me not just with scars, but too few ideas of men. It hampered how I saw myself and it had hampered how I saw Lucius. Not for the first time, I felt a great relief at knowing I had been wrong in my stubbornness.

I must have laughed into his mouth, for Lucius pulled back and looked at me, before climbing up on his bed to sit facing me.

"Luck?" he asked laughing, his smile coy.

"That I met you, yes," I said softly.

"And I got you trapped in this awful seige." His laugh was shrill and reminded me of all the stress we were both still functioning under.

I shrugged. It didn't matter. Not much. Not now.

"I don't -- I haven't --" I was being an idiot. I sighed. Certainly it wasn't the first time Lucius had had the pleasure.

He laughed, but it wasn't unkind. "It's not that different, Montreve."

"Imriel." It seemed weird, if we were going to do this, for him not to use my given name.

"Imriel," he repeated, and then paused, a wicked grin coming over his face.

He leaned close to me, and I thought he was going to kiss me again. I would have welcomed it over this nervous uncertainty.

"I want nothing different than what a woman would want from you," he murmured quietly. "Just you, inside of me."

Although Lucius had long known his desires, it had cost him somewhat to say it. Certainly, it had been made clear to me more than once how literally and damingly feminizing those desires were here.

I studied the curve of his face, the lowered lashes and brushed demurely over his cheek.

"All right," I said dumbly, kissing his cheek, his jaw, his ear, feeling his head tilt back and knowing my own blood again as it said to take and take the whole of him.

He put a hand on the back of my neck and murmured something encouraging. I didn't need to be told twice. Even as he reached for my hardness I only paused for a moment. I wanted, and he was going to give.

Mayhap it was that if I had done it tenatively I couldn't have done it at all. More likely, after all that death, I wanted life. Or, perhaps, it was Kushiel's legacy that urged me on. Regardless, once my hands found their way into Lucius' clothes, I wanted to be done with them all together. He was happy to oblige. In the brief moment it gave me to think, I realized I was breathless and overdressed.

"You're sure?" he asked, but my clothes had already started to come off. The wonder on his face made me grin. I was D'Angeline, yes, but not so beasutiful as all that except to this man as someone long wanted. It filled me with warmth. Claudia's desire, for all it had been less simple than I had hoped, had been colder. This was something I was unaccustomed to, but perhaps I'd been looking for it for a long time, or would have been, had things ever been less complicated for me.

"Here." Lucius was pushing me back on the bed, and I had to work hard to hide the degree to which that unsettled me. It was easier, once he started to slide down my body and it was clear to me what he meant to do. The languishment, and somehow, I was put in mind of Mavros and an unknown acolyte at Valerian House. Sunshine. As humiliating and difficult as that night had been, it made me smile now, my hand tangling in Lucius' hair and his sound of pleasure as my fingers tightened there and his mouth found me. Oh gods, was that a sweet thing.

Whatever tension in me that was unwelcome fled quickly, and I felt him smile around me. If I could manage nothing else in this foolish experiment I could be happy and let Lucius be happy in turn. Afterall, we were alive, and many were not.

"Imri --" he murmured with a kiss to the inside of my thigh.

I looked down at him, his face pressed against my thigh as my hardness bobbed before him. He didn't ask the question, but I knew what it was anyway. Should he finish me like this or would I take him as he wished?

It was no longer in me to say no to Lucius Tadius; even if part of me wished it was.

I sat up and helped him do the same.

"What do I --" I felt stupid, young, nervous, as foolish as I had been in all my worries on the night I had gone to Balm House.

"Shhhhh." He kissed me and it was clear he was happy to show me.

I watched as he prepared himself, and I let him guide my hands to help. This was not so simple as being with a woman, no matter what my friend had said and I felt a certain pang of sorrow for Lucius, that time and circumstance and nature had conspired to make desire seem hard for him. I suppose, in that, we had somewhat in common, but it was a thought for another time.

He wanted me to take him from behind. It was reasonable enough, yet somehow I couldn't bear the idea. He had wanted this so much, and I wanted to see him want this, wanted to see my own awkwardly held desire mirrored in his surety.

"I thought you might --"

I didn't know what he was going to say, but the point was plain enough.

"Half the time I wished Claudia was you," I said. It seemed to be enough. Something in him loosened, trusting me finally not to pretend he was someone or somewhat else. I knew the limits of what a single night could do to heal long held wounds, but I hoped that was not what he'd be left pondering come morning.

I pushed the thought away. I'd be leaving, and it was the last thing with him warm and arching beneath me as he hooked a leg over my shoulder, that I wanted to think on.

It was strange, sheathing myself in him. Slower, more methodical; there was a power in the labor of it, as well as in his slightly parted lips, the tilt of his head and the strange wonder on his face. This too is love.

I must have been staring at him dumbly, my arms trembling as I held myself above him.

"Move," he breathed, a trace of wry amusement hovering around his lips. It was the last instruction he needed to give, and in truth, even if he had wanted to give more, I don't think he would have been able. He gasped and moaned with each of my thrusts, looking, it seemed, not for more air, but for more light. It was as if he was gathering the whole of it in the room to him and was able to accomplish such a feat because of me. I was not gentle, but still the desire in me that I had always assumed to be nothing but the dark mirror was suddenly, clearly, anything but. What I had shuddered to share with the girls I had awkwardly tumbled in Montreve and even the eager servants of Valerian House seemed to find a home with Lucius that was bright and good. I hadn't known it was possible, and had I energy left for weeping or shock after all that had transpired in the city of Lucca, I might have well cried as I found my release in my friend, now somewhat different.

After, there was long silence, not awkward, but a sort of blankness that came over us both, until I felt Lucius ease his head down on my shoulder. I smiled, and put an arm around him.

"You have to tell me the rest of the story now."

And so I did, as best I could. I was no more a storyteller than I had been before the seige, and it was harder, harder than I had imagined to describe that which can barely be beheld and that which can barely be heard. But even so I managed it, in hushed urgent tones, the story of not just of Phedre and her Tsingani, but also of Rahab and the lost book of Raziel and myself hearing syllables I knew and yet would not ever be able to repeat. I apologized for it in the telling.

Lucius shifted and I looked down at him in my arms. He was bright again and I wondered if it was the result of the dead no longer walking abroad in his city.

"For all the mysteries you D'Angelines seem to carry around with you, you're a fool Montreve," he murmured at me thickly.

I made an interrogative noise. I didn't understand.

He moved his hands over my arms and pressed closer to me. "This is the name of God," he said, "as surely as your lost alphabets."

I held him tightly then, silent and breathless and understanding that it was not metaphor he spoke in, but that the world was filled with small mysteries too, and we had surely earned the right to this one. I would leave in the morning, but this would endure in both of us, too complicated to be spoken of until such time as it wasn't. I kised his hair and listened to the rustling silences of the world.

FIC: Afternoon (Eglantine OCs - PG)

Mon, 21 Jan 2008 17:39:31 GMT

Title: Afternoon
Fandom: Kushiel's Legacy
Characters: OC Night Court (my Eglantines)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1912
Notes: Some character sketches on the inhabitants of my Eglantine House.

Afternoon

Kushiel's Pupil

Wed, 16 Jan 2008 18:57:11 GMT

As unlikely as this is, this is a fic about Phedre and Joscelin's daughter, Anafielle. Here's the link, it's five chapters long, so far, and updating regularly.
http://books.adultfanfiction.net/story.php?no=600093450

FIC: Mandrake House [Imriel/Mavros, NC-17]

Thu, 10 Jan 2008 11:58:52 GMT

Title: Mandrake House
Fandom: Jacqueline Carey - Kushiel's Legacy series
Written for: belmanoir in the Yuletide 2007 Challenge
Originally posted here
Author: Esteliel
Rating: NC-17
Pairing: Imriel/Mavros
Disclaimer: The Kushiel universe belongs to Jacqueline Carey
Summary: Mavros takes Imriel to Mandrake House.

"Do you want me to play Valerian to your Mandrake, cousin?"

I hesitated, caught dead by the improbable question. Mavros gave me one of his teasing smiles, eyes gleaming merrily, and the words escaped me without thought.

"Would you, Mavros?"

"Ahhh," my cousin breathed, sidling closer to raise one hand to my cheek, the back of his fingers brushing my skin with the barest hint of touch – caress of the summer wind, my reading of the Trois Milles Joies had taught me.

"You are just beautiful enough that I might be tempted," Mavros murmured and tilted his head to the side, maddeningly teasing and beautiful, as all of my Shahrizai kin were.

“Mavros...” I said a little helplessly, aware of the bustle around us, and also too aware of the closeness of his body, his eyes dark like the night sky. Almost like her dark Cruithne eyes – but his, though a dark blue, were not unreadable, but open to me, always. Mavros, my cousin, whom even now Joscelin had to force himself to be polite to... There was all the worst of my family's line in him, and all the best; and despite his proclivity to tease those around him, he had time and again proven himself to be a true friend.

He could see that for once, I was not unaffected by him, and his smile deepened, heedless of who could be watching us.

“I told you... I can find pleasure in just about anything,” he breathed, eyes dark with desire, and unbidden a vision arose, my cousin in all of his proud, cruel Shahrizai beauty kneeling naked before me, his back striped with welts, his eyes brimming with defiant tears, challenging me even from that position...

I swallowed, and he smiled as if he had seen what I imagined – and for all I knew, he probably did, for the blood of Kushiel ran through both our veins.

Any caress, any torture I could think of, he would certainly already have visited upon numerous adepts or lovers... The thought was reassuring and disturbing at once.

"Do you think I could not?" I asked recklessly. Truly, after Daršanga, I did not know if I could, but faced with my impossible cousin, there were no thoughts of the zenana in my mind.

"Well then, we are agreed!" he declared and grabbed my wrist to pull me away from the circle of our court friends. Colette Trente giggled, and her brother gave us a knowing smirk as Mavros told them that he would take me away to the Night Court.

He did not let go of my wrist until we reached the palace doors, where Hugues was waiting for me. One of the ostlers brought the Bastard who was stamping and snorting, his eyes rolling as if he could sense my mood. I held the reins tightly once I sat in the saddle, yet when Mavros lightly vaulted onto his own horse's back and then leaned towards Hugues to tell him our destination, for one moment I was almost tempted to give the Bastard his head and let him run.

"To Mandrake House," Mavros said, giving me a wicked smile while poor Hugues seemed to blush and pale at the same time. And to tell the truth, I was certain that I could not look much different, for those were words I never thought to hear someone like Mavros utter. It was the one House in the Court of Night-Blooming Flowers I had thought to never visit.

Mandrake.

I must have looked pale after all, for Mavros nudged his horse closer to mine, even though the Bastard gave an ill-tempered snort.

"I told you... we all experience at least once what Kushiel's instruments feel like. You need not fear for me, I promise you that it takes more than a Night Court adept to break me."

He shook his head at my doubtful look. "Anyway, there is the signale," he said more soberly. "I wonder... what shall it be? Oh yes... sunshine!" he exclaimed, laughing at my dismayed groan.

Sunshine... The signale of the adept of Valerian House. I remembered that incident all too well – and so, apparently, did Mavros. And why would he not, when certainly I had to be the only patron who had ever felt the need for a signale there?

"Don't you dare to use my signale this time!" Mavros threatened me, laughing at the memory and at the flush that reddened my cheeks, then slackened his reins, his horse immediately leaping forward to escape the Bastard's teeth. I could feel Hugue's eyes boring into my back, his unvoiced Are you certain?, and I let the Bastard feel my heels, the powerful body stretching beneath me to thunder after Mavros' gelding.

It was not the reckless race that had once nearly made me run over a minor lordling, yet still we reached Mont Nuit far too quickly for my taste. I still was not quite certain what I'd let myself in for, yet already it had progressed too far for me to call it off. And it was not as if I really had reason to – certainly it was Mavros who had to fear this visit, not I.

We rode through the door toward the great structure of Mandrake House. Yet again, like with my first visit to Kushiel's temple, I was surprised. There was no black marble, no air of menace – if anything, the sprawling building exuded an air of generosity, and there was a certain sense of indulgence in the opulent gardens, filled with wide varieties of flowers from the most common poppy to huge, exotic blossoms some part of me seemed to recognize as Jebean. It seemed to go against everything en vogue with the court's nobles – indeed, it made me wonder whether there even was a garden architect responsible for the astonishing design, or whether it was simply gardeners' and adepts' willfulness – and yet, there was a wild beauty to the flamboyant gardens.

"Come on, Imri!" Mavros called out, laughing and breathless, as if he truly were impatient to feel the cruel caresses meted out to patrons here. When we stopped in the courtyard, there was a pair of ostlers waiting to take our horses, and once they had been taken care of – the Bastard doing his name honor by snapping at the poor stable lad's fingers – the doors to Mandrake House opened, and a man stepped out to greet us.

"Welcome, my Lord Shahrizai – what a rare honor! Tell me, did you get lost on Mont Nuit?" There was a playful smile on his lips, not quite unlike that of my cousin, and yet again my expectations had proven to be untrue. There was none of the strictness of Kushiel's priests in him, none of the cruel mercy I myself had known there.

"Your highness, Prince Imriel – be welcome at Mandrake House. I am the Dowayne's second, Michèle nó Mandrake."

He bowed, his honey-brown hair falling forward, and only now I realized that he wore it in the fashion of my Shahrizai kin, braided into a multitude of fine braids that framed his face.

"How may Mandrake House serve you, my Lords? Have you come to arrange for a showing? We did not hear from Valerian House, but I am certain we could arrange something quickly if you-"

"Oh, we did come for a showing, but we will not need any adepts beyond what your House has to offer. " Mavros gave the House's Second an impertinent grin. "You see, my cousin here doubts my ability to play Valerian, so I will show him that I have indeed the strength to endure what I usually dole out."

"Is that so?" Michèle mused, a gleam in his eyes as he hungrily eyed my cousin. He raised a hand to Mavros' cheek, then let his thumb sweep over his full lower lip, smirking when Mavros' returned his look as if in challenge.

"You should not doubt him, Prince," Michèle said, his smile smug. "You see, I have already heard this one cry out at the touch of my whip."

He chuckled at the sound of disbelief that escaped me, finally letting go of Mavros to lead us inside. He leaned towards me while poor Hugues was lead away to a part of the House where patrons' retainers would find food and drink while they waited, and I firmly ignored the expression of dismay on his face.

"Most scions of House Shahrizai come to us at one time," Michèle murmured intimately. "Your cousin has told you that usually, someone of Kushiel's line will learn how the instruments of our pleasure feel on his own skin as well? Once upon a time, I had the honor to teach our young Lord here. Even if the Shahrizai hold their family above all else, I think you will agree that there are some things best taught by someone not family."

I felt certain that despite my best efforts to seem undisturbed by these revelations, my cheeks had to be flushed with embarrassment – or was it excitement at what I heard? Mavros only laughed good-naturedly, as if a visit to Mandrake House was an every-day occurrence for a scion of Kushiel, and when we entered a large, warm room with scattered settees and plush chairs, he strode straight into the middle of the room.

Only when he turned around, that challenging smile still on his face as he eyed those sprawled on settees did I realize that Michèle had brought us to where the gathered adepts were waiting. It was unlike any choosing at a House of the Night Court I had witnessed before – not that I had very much experience with it. The adept of Balm House had been chosen for me, yet where at Alyssum House, the adepts had stood in a line, timidly waiting for the patron to choose one of them, here the adepts hungrily eyed the victim who had stumbled into their middle, much like a pride of lions watching prey. A few of them did not even look up from where they were absorbed in reading a book, or talking with friends, as if a mere patron was beneath their notice.

Mavros looked them all up and down, one after the other, as if he did not even realize that it was he who was on display here. Finally he seemed to have found what he had been looking for and confidently strode towards a male adept sitting in a chair near the fire with a glass of red wine in one hand. "You," Mavros said decisively, and I swallowed, my throat suddenly dry when I realized that this one definitely shared our blood. The stamp of Kushiel was unmistakable – blue-black hair that gleamed in the light, falling in ripples down past his shoulders, his eyes a blue as dark as the sky at midnight, and his lips full and generous. Like Mavros. Like my mother.

Like myself.

For one moment I wanted to protest, but then he smiled at Mavros, twirling the glass between his fingers, and all I could do was to watch helplessly as Mavros stopped in front of him.

"Oh, thatwill be interesting!" the House's Second murmured beside me.

"So... Lordling," the adept said with laughter in his voice. "Have you come to see if there is something you can learn here? I would teach you, if that is what you want..."

"Do you think you can?" Mavros challenged with a grin.

"Oh, you will be surprised to see what I can do..." The adept gave him a secret smile, then turned towards us when Michèle nudged me to step closer.

"Fenouil nó Mandrake," he introduced the adept to us. "It seems you are in for quite a challenge today, Fenouil... Lord Shahrizai as well as a veritable Prince of the Blood. You might make your marque today, if Naamah is willing."

"Prince Imriel," the adept said and bowed, eying me with frank curiosity. There was only one Prince of the Blood who bore the stamp of Kushiel's line, yet he had certainly never expected to see me here.

"Never fear, you need not leave me a myriad of diamonds," he then explained, his voice warm although I paled at what he was referring to – the night when Phèdre made her marque. The night my mother lead her around on a leash, naked but for diamond-studded gauze.

"It is almost finished. One last visit to the marquist for the finial. A Shahrizai Lordling would make for a most remarkable last assignation..." he mused, then took up his glass again to drink the last of the wine.

There was a contract Michèle procured that was signed by both – much like the contracts at Valerian House, only here it was the adept who had to honor the patron's signale, and whose signature promised the exclusion of flechettes and other implements that would leave scars. Mavros grinned and signed with a flourish, and slowly I came to the realization that my mad, beautiful cousin was indeed completely capable of giving himself into the cruel hands of a Mandrake adept solely to see me blush.

I did not blush when Fenouil lead us into the small dungeon. It was much like the Shahrizai quarters at Valerian House, though smaller, and while the floggers, crops and whips displayed at one wall still made me feel uncomfortable, it did not conjure memories of the zenana. The air was faintly sweet, the scent of flowers wafting inside through a small window high up at the wall, even though there was a black curtain in front of it, keeping the room dark for atmosphere.

"Feels like home, doesn't it, Imri?" Mavros quipped, and I smiled despite myself.

"Let's see if you will feel just as much at home in my chains," Fenouil threatened. "Undress, Lordling!"

I sank down into a chair, watching breathlessly as Mavros obeyed. He was beautiful, my cousin, and naked, not quite as similar to me anymore. I was still lean from small rations and hard drilling in Lucca, and there were a few small scars, too – not to speak of those left by the Mahrkagir's whips, and Jagun's brand.

No, my cousin had never been in a fight, and his skin was smooth and unblemished, lithely muscled from riding, hunting and light sparring. Still, there was nothing boyish about him. We both had grown into men during the time I spent in Caerdicca Unitas – where I and Eamonn had wiled away the days discussing the nature of goodness at the university of Tiberium, Mavros would have undergone lessons in governing his father's estates, and felt the game of courtship gain pressure.

"Oh, very nice!" Fenouil said, breaking through my musings. "It will be such fun to break you. I truly love a challenge! And there is nothing quite as sweet as having an overly prideful Lordling whimper for mercy at my feet..."

Mavros laughed at that, but then gasped when Fenouil grabbed a handful of his hair and yanked his head back by it. "Oh, you will whimper and writhe, and your cousin will watch and enjoy every moment of it."

I was breathless at what I saw, feeling helpless when desire arose unbidden at seeing Mavros treated so. Certainly it could not be right to feel such a thing, to want this which should be so wrong? Mavros was made just as little to suffer such cruel treatment as I was... and yet it had been his decision to come here.

I wavered in indecision for a moment, and before I had decided to embarrass myself by asking Mavros yet again if this really was what he wanted, Fenouil had dragged him to a whipping post where he chained his wrists and legs to leave him standing spread out, vulnerable to every kind of torture the adept could think up.

And there were a lot of ways for an adept of Mandrake House, especially one who shared a part of that ichor which made my heart beat hard and fast at the way Mavros gasped when the flogger hit his skin...

It was not the bronze-tipped braided leather Kushiel's priests wielded to bestow his mercy on supplicants, yet it was not the velvet cords used for games of arousement either.

It was leather, heavy yet not cruel, and where it fell onto Mavros' skin, it left red welts that made my fingers tremble with the need to trace them and feel him flinch.

How Fenouil bore it I couldn't say... Had I been the one wielding the flogger, I wager I would not have been able to make it last for more than a few strokes before the need to possess him became unbearable. Yet patience is one of the first things taught to the children of the Night Court, and so Fenouil laid stroke after stroke onto the pale canvas of Mavros' back while I was already battling the need to take myself in hand. After a while, Fenouil switched to a cane until we could hear Mavros whimper in truth, and then, he took up a crop for a few more strokes that made my cousin flinch in his chains, and made me press my hand against my aching phallus while I breathlessly, shamefully watched.

Finally Fenouil paused, and Mavros, incorrigible as always, turned his head as best he could and grinned at the both of us, even though his breathing had grown labored.

"That was nothing to boast of so far – I daresay that Valerian's adepts have been served better by my own hand!"

"Is that so?" There was a secret smile on Fenouil's lips as he put the flogger down and stepped forward, resting his chin on Mavros' shoulder while his arm encircled his waist. "Why, Lordling!" he exclaimed when his questing fingers found Mavros hard and eager. "You truly do enjoy this, don't you? Or is it maybe that you like showing off for our sweet prince?"

Mavros groaned when Fenouil stroked him once, but then he let go of him again to instead for the first time motion for me to get up and join them. My heart thundered in my chest as I obeyed, unable to resist the vision before me. And how would I have been able to resist something like this? I did not possess such strength, not when what was being done to my cousin's body was the fabric of all my dreams, and all my nightmares.

Fenouil did not say anything, but wordlessly took up the flogger he had laid aside and pressed it into my hands. I knew what it meant... I knew what he wanted me to do.

Was it what Mavros wanted as well?

I did not know... All I knew was the rush of blood through my veins, and the terrible desire that surged up in me like a great wave, my body answering to my cousin's suffering like the tide to the moon.

I couldn't remember raising my arm or swinging the flogger, but when the leather impacted with Mavros' skin and tore a gasp from him, I moaned and shuddered as well, a keen pleasure coursing through my veins. I wanted...

I wanted to do such terrible things!

My fingers opened and the flogger fell onto the floor. “No...” I helplessly shook my head, taking a step back in horror at what I had done. “No... I won't do this! He does not want this, not truly! I – it's blasphemy!”

Mavros groaned with what I thought was pain, and I shook my head again, horrified at the way my body still reacted to the sight of the red welts on his skin.

“Blasphemy? Imri, you fool!” Mavros turned his head with another pained groan to glare at me.

It was not what I had expected to hear, and so I stilled, even though I must have been trembling like a high-strung horse, ready to bolt from the room at the merest provocation.

“Don't you know why I do this?” he continued more softly, giving me a smile despite the tears of pain that still glistened on his lashes – despite the ways in which I had wanted to hurt him. “For love of you, Imri... Naamah help me, I do it for love.”

“Mavros...” I breathed, raising trembling fingers to his cheeks, and he laughed at me. His eyes gleamed as he chided me, just as if he were not hanging naked in his bonds, his skin marked by flogger and cane and crop.

“I am no anguissette to enjoy this pain, no adept of Valerian House... but like I told you before, I can find pleasure in just about anything.” His voice had sobered, but then the usual humor returned. “Of course I should have known that you would find a way to start brooding even when it is me who gets tied up and tortured. Elua, Imri... even your Cassiline would approve when it's me who gets whipped!”

“Or ask to lend a hand,” I muttered dryly, and he laughed, then straightened and rubbed his wrists when Fenouil finally loosened his bonds.

“I did not see you whimper at my feet, Lordling,” the adept murmured, brushing gently over Mavros' welt-covered back, smiling at the hiss this produced. “Still, I think you got what you came for... Naamah will be pleased. And Kushiel... Ah, Kushiel, I think, will be pleased as well."

Then he turned towards me, smiling wrily at the expression on my face. "Still, my Lord Shahrizai has much left to teach you. But for now, I shall leave you alone; you will find a bedchamber through that door over there, and a salve for his back. You can atone for your wickedness by easing Lord Shahrizai's pain, I think – or make him suffer some more, if that is more to your liking.”

He laughed softly and cupped my face, kissing me farewell, and then I was alone with Mavros, truly looking into his face for the first time since we had come into this room.

“Did you enjoy it at least?” Mavros asked, eying me with a little smile as if he knew exactly what I had been thinking. “I kept imagining how it must arouse you to see me suffer so...”

“It did,” I answered hoarsely, not knowing what to say or do now that we were alone. “I am sorry, Mavros, I ruined it-”

“Hush!” my cousin silenced me. “You ruined nothing. I did not bring you here because I expected you to suddenly take to the whip and the flogger. I brought you here to see that this is done in worship of Naamah, and for a very many reasons. Your Cruithne bride, she might never want this, but you are family, Imri... I just cannot let you go without at least having you realize what this is.”

“This, too, is sacred,” I murmured, raising one hand to touch a weal as I remembered the adept of Balm House.

Mavros smiled and then leaned forward, kissing me in a way I'd never been kissed before. There was gentleness in it, too, true affection... but mostly there was hunger, need, and when he drew away I moaned, all of my previous doubts already forgotten.

“Come, Imri... You can put that salve on me, and then I'll see if I can find a way to make you pay for what you did.” Mavros' grin was suggestive and left no doubt about what he intended, and I grabbed his hand to pull him with me towards the bedroom, achingly hard at the thought of burying my fingers in his hair, of feeling his mouth – of tasting him. He grinned at my enthusiasm and in the end, we tumbled onto the bed, both of us tearing at my clothes. He ended up on top of me and I felt him groan as I raked my fingers down his back. There was no guilt in me then, no doubt, and when I kissed him once more, I felt at peace. Overcome by frightening, cruel desires, yes – but at peace nevertheless.

The memory of the Mahrkagir, of the Tartar Lord Jagun was gone, and what was left was Naamah's passion, Kushiel's desires, and the honey-sweet truth of Blessed Elua's love. It filled us both that night, made our love-making cruel and sweet, and I made my peace with Kushiel, as I had made it with Naamah in Balm House once. More than that, I had made my peace with House Shahrizai as well, and when I kissed Mavros one last time before we left, I knew at last who I was, and who I would become. Not Melisande's son, not the frightened slave nor the reluctant prince – I was a scion of Kushiel and Blessed Elua both, and I would not forget again what birthright stemmed from the ichor that still flowed through our veins.

Love as thou wilt.

"By the Burning River," Nicola/Phedre, NC-17

Wed, 02 Jan 2008 17:55:44 GMT

Title: By the Burning River
Author: kethlenda
Fandom: Kushiel's Legacy
Pairing: Phedre/Nicola l'Envers
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: BDSM
Summary: Phedre indulges her darker desires for the first time since Darsanga.
Spoilers: through Kushiel's Scion
A/N: I can't believe I've never posted this here! I wrote this in June as a birthday gift for a friend. And I suppose it ought to have a title, so now it has one. :)

I waited, abeyante. The pearly marble of the floor chilled my knees through the thin fabric of my gown. I was grateful for the slight discomfort; it helped to take my mind off the swirling morass of guilt and nerves that assailed me this night.

There was a quiet click, and the door opened. I kept my eyes downcast, but the whisper of skirts on the tile told me that Nicola had arrived. A soft laugh, low and merry, told me she had caught sight of me, and then I saw her hand, heavy with gems, as she reached to cup my chin.

Her touch was at once familiar and alien. Familiar because she and I had been lovers, once; alien because it had been many years. Long years, some of them, and hard. I was not certain I was the same woman Nicola had known.

Nicola lifted my chin with her hand, forcing me to meet her violet gaze. Her fingertips were softer than Joscelin's; her touch was commanding in a way his was not. She was smiling. It was a smile I remembered well, and promised the most delicious cruelty. Kushiel's blood courses through the veins of House l'Envers. Whether this resulted from the coupling of the two Companions' mortal scions, or whether gentle Naamah herself yielded to mighty Kushiel, I did not know. I had never asked Delaunay, or Melisande.

Nicola's smile was suddenly very like Melisande's to me. Her eyes seemed to search my soul, to divine every secret I concealed.

"Phedre," she said. "You are a million miles away, cara."

"Ghosts, my lady," I said simply. The dead and the living. Delaunay, Melisande. The spectre of the year I'd nearly lost Joscelin. He'd sent me to Nicola with his blessing tonight, yet I could not shake the fears that hovered about me. What if he thought he could bear it, but could not?

"Come. We shall banish these phantoms, you and I." Nicola snaked her long fingers into my hair, gently at first, then seizing a thick hank of hair with an iron grip, pulling me to my feet. She led me to the bed, her bed, a sumptuous four-poster heaped high with satin and brocade. "Your signale is still the same?"

"Yes, my lady."

"Remove that gown, and lie down."

I obeyed, and Nicola climbed into the bed atop me, straddling my waist as she pulled two lengths of rope from I knew not where. Deftly she tied one wrist to the headboard, then the other, and again she smiled.

"Do not go anywhere, cara, she said, laughing at her jest as she slipped out of the bed. She opened an ebony chest and began to rummage through it. I heard the clink of metal, the soft slap of leather, and sighed in anticipation.

I tested my restraints; they held fast. The ropes chafed at my wrists and the delicate burning of it brought the first tendrils of red into my vision, and wet heat to my sex.

Nicola returned. She produced two tiny clamps. My nipples grew hard, aching for the pain, but instead she lowered her head to one breast and then the other, laving with her hot tongue. I must have cried out, because Nicola smiled and trailed one hand lightly between my thighs. "What a lovely little wanton you are," she murmured. I writhed, trying to hold her hand where I wanted it, but already she had drawn it away.

She placed one of the clamps on my nipple and I gasped at the burst of pain. When I had caught my breath, she applied the other. Then she climbed atop me again and kissed me, first on my lips, then harder on my neck and at my collarbone. I tangled my legs around her, wanting her closer, pressing my pearl of Naamah against her rough brocade skirt in a most undignified fashion.

"Naughty girl," she said, rising up again to lounge beside me in the bed. "I do believe you've ruined my gown."

"I…I'm sorry," I said, then saw that any damage to her gown was utterly invisible, and knew that this, too, was play. "How may I make it up to you, my lady?"

"Regretfully, I shall have to punish you." She picked up a flogger from the nightstand and trailed its leather tails over my skin. Her wrist flicked, and it was like fire, like water spilling over my breasts. Red filled my gaze as she struck me again, and again.

"Tell me what you want," she whispered.

"My lady…I want…"

"Yes?"

"Please, my lady. Touch me."

Her hand traveled to my sex again. She thrust two fingers deep into me; her nails were too long and it only added to the pleasure. My hips seemed to move of their own volition, rising and falling to match her rhythm, and the ropes cut deeper with every breath. Close, so close…

With her other hand Nicola pulled the clamps from my nipples. The world went scarlet as the blood rushed back in. Nicola slid a slick finger over my pearl of Naamah, and I shuddered, biting my lip as I came, tasting the metallic tang of blood.

This, as much as anything else, was what had made Nicola a lover and not a patron, I reflected as she cut my bonds away: She had always cared for my pleasure. I remembered other ropes, and a clever little knot, strategically placed…

Nicola poured me a goblet of wine and stroked my hair as I sank back to earth. I sipped it, considering all the delightful things I could do to pleasure Nicola. We would not sleep much this night, I was certain.