How often I thought of you, the peaceful one,
a graceful being of pure serenity.
I dreamed of dancing into your life,
a flickering flame, a burning song.
I wanted you for my own,
but lacked the form that would claim you.
I would have seized you
if I had not been so sure
I would crush that which I loved
above all else.
I would have worshipped you,
flung aside the gods
and made you a place in the heavens.
I would have made your eyes stars,
and your breath the celestial wind
that whorls the sun and moon through the sky.
I delight in your smiles, in your joy,
and though you are not and never will be mine,
I am content that you are content,
and I wish you nothing but happiness,
even without me
and that,
my purest darling,
is love.
Blaze Of Glory
Posted in Poetry
Tagged all souls night, fire, hope, long ago and far away, love, memories, poem, poems, poetry, the old ways, things that never were, unrequited love, writing
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DeathWatch No. 91 – Watch Over Him
This is Issue #91 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
“Majesty. Guardian. A thousand pardons,” Secta said, buttoning down his shocked (and ridiculously amused) expression as quickly as he could. He cleared his throat, looking away and moved to get out of their way as quickly as possible.
It didn’t matter; the spell was broken. Jet withdrew from Lucida, panting. He stared at her for a long moment, then shook his head, and turned away to shut himself in his baths, calling back to her, “You should ready yourself. Dinner will be ready, before long.”
Stunned, Lucida stared after him, fury and heartbreak hardening her pretty face. She stomped her foot in impatience, and turned to go back out the door they’d tumbled in.
Secta was there, opening it for her, looking apologetic. “Majesty,” he said, looking pained. “Forgive him, he–”
“He does not love me, yes, I know,” Lucida spat. “The whole of the palace will know, Secta, if he does not learn to act, as I have had to.” She worked hard to cover her hurt with a mask of annoyance.
“My apologies, Majesty, I was going to suggest he simply needed more time. I imagine had I not startled him, he would’ve been content to… ah… act,” Secta said, clearing his throat.
“Perhaps,” Lucida sighed. “Watch over him, Secta. He is fragile, still, for all his invincibility, and Ilona needs him.”
“Yes, Majesty,” Secta murmured, shutting the door after her. He then went to the bathroom door and knocked. “My Lord–”
“Go away, Secta,” Jet rasped, his voice low, rough with distress. “I do not wish your services.” His head was pounding, and his blood roared in his ears; he gritted his teeth against a peculiar sensation, a tightening in his belly he could neither name or dispel.
“I could bring you a woma–”
“I do not want a woman!” Jet shouted in return.
Emboldened by the tone of his master’s voice, which bore far more misery than fury, Secta opened the door, and stepped in.
Jet was leaned over the washbasin, hands on the marble, his painted face bowed. Blood and tears ran tracks over the marks that had been so carefully done; he turned and looked at Secta, rage in his eyes. “I said–”
“I heard you, Lord,” Secta said softly. “And perhaps it is exactly that which pains you. I needn’t bring you a woman,” he said, his voice gentle in its offer. “If your blood cries for something else, perhaps–”
“Leave it be, Secta,” Jet hissed.
Secta stepped forward, and put his fingertips on Jet’s cheek. “Lord,” he whispered. “Forgive me, but it is my one duty to ease you,” he said quietly.
“You cannot help me, Secta,” Jet said, reaching up to catch the groom’s hand, even as he turned his cheek to it, desperate to lean into the touch.
In that instant, Secta too leaned forward, and pressed his cheek to Jet’s, whispering against his skin, close to his ear, “But I can, Lord, if you let me.”
The feel of Secta’s lips near his ear was an overwhelming rush of heat, of need, of confusing, conflicting desires. Jet’s eyes widened as he took in the meaning beyond Secta’s words. He shivered, standing quite close, his cheek against that of his groom, breathing raggedly for long moments, listening to his blood rush in his ears, an ocean of rage and desire, until he could finally say, “Leave me be. I cannot.”
“Jet,” Secta purred. “If I am not mistaken… it is in your blood. You must.”
“What I must do is my duty,” Jet snarled. “You overstep, and your offer, were it to anyone else, would see you executed.”
Secta pulled back, blushing hotly, and gave a quick bow. “As you wish, Lord. All apologies. I will remove myself from your presence until you have need of me. If you have need of me,” he said stiffly. “Your clothes and ornament are laid out. I will be outside your doors should you require me.” He left with all speed, his head down, bowed, his eyes looking away from Jet.
Jet watched him go, and locked the door behind him. He then paced, back and forth, for nearly a quarter of an hour, trying to calm himself enough to wash up so he could get ready for the evening’s feast. When he couldn’t find his own calm, when he remained in pure turmoil, he simply strode out, walking past Secta, refusing to look at him. All he could think of, all he could imagine, was the heat of skin on skin, the scent of aetheris, and the burning ache in his scarred hand.
“Lord?” Secta said, fearful and hopeful all at once.
Jet did not answer the groom, but ran, only one thought in his heart.
It is a gift of my blood.
* * *
Jet let himself into Immanis’s room; rushing past guards without comment — they had no need to stop him, and no curiosity as to the rush. The room had been freshened; it smelled cool and sweet — he strode to Immanis’s bedside, and pulled back the sheets, baring Immanis’s tattooed body. He pulled off his shroud, revealing his flawless skin, and the knives of black glass he now kept strapped against it. He crawled into the bed, touching Immanis’s cool skin with his own, took his brother’s hand, and straddled his brother’s hips, the fever of his body warming them both.
He sat up and took one of the glass knives, and put it between their joined hands. “Iuvo. Obsecro,” he pled. “I am begging you, my brother, come back to me,” he breathed, and with that, he cut their palms, and pressed the wounds together. The flat of the blade he first put to Immanis’s lips, and then his own, kissing it before putting it aside.
The searing heat of his reopened scar throbbed from his hand all the way behind his eyes as he leaned low and pressed his mouth to Immanis’s, tasting blood and aetheris and hope and pain all at once.
* * *
Posted in Deathwatch, Fiction, Serial
Tagged death, deathwatch, fiction, Jet, Kieron, serial, writing
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Spindle (it just doesn’t mean what you think it means)
He
asked if
he
could come over.
He
was old enough to be
my
father.
He
asked if
he
could show
me
something.
I
told
him
yes.
I
was naive.
He
was hungry for it. That much,
I
knew.
I
liked the attention until we were alone together. Until
he
said
he
wanted to teach
me.
Until the knot of the necktie tightened around
my
wrists. Until
he
said that it was about mastering fear and doing what
he
said, because
he
would know best, and
I
would like it and
he
would take care of
me.
He
put
me
on
my
back, and held
my
fists over
my
head.
When
I
brought them down
he
would force them back up.
He
was huge. Stronger than
me.
Older than
me,
and most importantly,
I
thought
he
was more powerful than
me.
He
spread
my
thighs and put
his
face between them.
He
sounded like a hungry animal.
He
made
me
come — and that made
me
think
I
wanted it. Made
me
think
I
was broken. Made
me
think
I
deserved it.
I
was queasy. It was an orgasm, but confusing.
I
was wet but shaking, and not with desire.
I
didn’t know how to say no once
I
had already said yes.
I
got quiet.
I
was afraid.
I
did everything
I
could to make sure
he
finished and left, told
him
I
didn’t want to lie to
his
wife, and once
he
was gone,
I
made a single phone call.
You
probably don’t even remember the details but
you
probably saved
my
life.
I
had decided then that because
I
was so obviously
self-
destructive, that there must be something wrong with
me
and if
you
hadn’t named him as wrong and promised
me
I
was all right
I
would never have managed to climb back out of that bathtub and into
your
arms.
Crisis
This brittle thing we had —
like lace gone to ash
from a slow burn.
Pretty thing,
but look at it twice
and it’s dust.
I don’t understand
why you had to turn it all
upside down —
was it something I said?
Something I did?
Something involving
how I didn’t feel like
worshipping your pointless cock
night and day?
Or,
like most things involving you,
did it have nothing to do with me
and everything to do with
the dissatisfaction you’ve felt
since crossing some invisible,
unbearable line
into your middle years?
DeathWatch No. 90 – Climb Me
This is Issue #90 of DeathWatch, an ongoing Serial. Click that link to go find ‘A Beginning’ and read from there, if you need to catch up.
Happy Reading!
* * *
The ghost ship sailed above a roiling black sea, trailing a glittering mist of silverblue. Frost bled from its sails and chains, but there was no hum of life to its engine. Dark and darker, it slipped along on the high jetstream, while everyone inside held their breath.
As the sun dipped below the Ridge, the men and women who dared to be ‘gators hung from their posts and stared back at what the Ilonans called the Luminora — the edge of light — and watched the way the sun burned up the sky. Above the clouds, the world was painted in blood and gold, and there was radio silence as each member of the Jacob did their task, caught either in fear, or in beauty.
The sky went from whitegold to whitepink to bloody orange to crimson and indigo, to twilight and stars. The moon was purely a sickle, huge but mostly hidden, and the known world was dark enough that it was easy to know which way they were headed, even without being able to see the land below.
Most everything was blackness, save for pinpricks of light, a landscape of serenity that belied the bounty of ships below, and their weapons.
“Lightning’s coming,” the ‘gators called.
“That goes down,” Nate said, smirking.
“You know,” said Jules, walking in and rolling her eyes. “You smirking is never a good thing.”
“Don’t you pick on my smirk,” Nate laughed, putting an arm around Jules.
“Ugh, stop with the cute. You two make me want to throw up,” Sha said, rolling her eyes.
Nate snorted, rolling his eyes in return, and quietly asked Jules, “You seen Brody?”
“No, you were goin–”
“Sirens. Didn’t make it down. But he’s not in here.”
“I’ll get ‘im,” Jules said, and leaned up to give Nathan a kiss on the cheek. “Look alive, O’Malley. This teacup’s in for one hell of a ride, yeah?”
Nate laughed and said, “Ain’t it always? Go on with you, then,” and watched as Jules disappeared back out the door.
“The fuel,” Hana said. “How are the tanks?”
“Just below redline, for pressure,” the cadet called back, “But we had to bleed off nearly thirty percent of what we had.”
“Putting us at what?” Nate wondered, turning his attention back to the crises.
“Each tank’s at 25% right now,” the cadet answered.
Nate nodded, and said to Sha, “Plenty of fuel for another two months, and we’re not staying on this side of the ridge that lo–what in hell’s–?” Nate ran for the window and looked down, all but pressing his face to the glass.
Far below and well behind them, the black clouds began to light up, to glow. In flashes and rippling waves, they burst into whitehot brilliance. The buffeting energy made the ship rock and turn.
“–the fuck?” Sha breathed. Everyone in the comms room stared out of the side windows, looking back, watching as massive plumes of light speared through the clouds, following along the trail they’d been on. “Ion cannons? What, are the Ilonans just shooting blind?”
“They’re nowhere near us,” Nate marveled.
“Your plan worked,” Sha said, clapping Hana on the back. “Damn good job, cadet.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Hana breathed. “If those are ion cannons–”
“Captain! Captain! Permission to shut off the bleed!” the cadet in the fuel room broke in, sounding terrified.
Realization flooded the expressions of those in comms, followed shortly by a burst of fear, and then determination. “Granted!” Sha shouted back. “Get it done, cadet! Djara! Penny! Figure out a way for us to move faster, or we’re all–”
The sound of the explosion was deafening, and the ship itself gave up a long, grinding groan.
* * *
“JULES!”
The redhead turned around to see Kieron staggering back from the head, looking bewildered. His eyes were dark and glassy, and he still looked almost punch-drunk. Every time she saw his wounded face, she was ashamed of Nathan. Every time.
“What the fuck is–”
“We’re flying dark, cadet. Ilonan Domitors are below us, shooting up into the clouds. I’m guessing they managed to hit something,” Jules said, looking grim.
Over Jules’ radio, they both heard the Captain, “I need eyes on the fuel line cadet! He’s not responding.”
“Got it!” Jules shouted back, and grabbed for Kieron’s hand. “Let’s go, cadet.”
They ran from the bunks to the belly as quickly as possible, boots pounding on the boards, busting through doors until they got to one marked ‘Fuel Room.’ The metal wheel was rattling, and the roar behind it was deafening. When Kieron managed to get the latch open, the door flung wide, pulling both him and Jules out it.
The fuel room — the tanks… the cadet responsible for monitoring the tanks… everything in the rear bottommost level… gone. He could see the twin screws of the aether engines spinning, and the yawn of the sky opening wide to greet them as they tumbled. Below them, it raged on fire, with ion cannon shots piercing the veil of mist and setting the aether trail ablaze.
On his way past, Kieron grabbed for the door latch, and somehow managed it, cutting open his fingertips and tearing his nails. It was slippery, but a measure of sheer desperation allowed him to hold on even as Jules fell past him and grabbed hold of his ankles.
He could feel his blood in his ears, and couldn’t catch his breath; the chill frosted his eyelashes as they swung there, pulled back toward the screws.
“Climb me!” he shouted to Jules.
“What?”
“Climb me!” Kieron screamed. “Before one of us has… a motherfucking vision, Jules, CLIMB ME!”
She wasted no more time, grabbing fistfuls of his uniform, crawling up him until they were face to face and she was reaching for the inner wheel of the door. “Don’t let go, Brody,” she shouted at him, hoping he could hear her over the roar of the sky. “We’ll get out of this. Just hold on!”
“You got… maybe… thirty… seconds,” he wheezed.
* * *
Posted in Deathwatch, Fiction, Serial
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