The Raven King

The Raven King

Seraphis

I

It is possibly the only time I have ever left you in a temper, and not half an hour into our first conversation. There we were, sitting beneath a white pavilion, in a healing pool fit for gods, and three women enter, two of them late in their third trimester. You begin to look panicked, you suggest a private walk, and I begin to follow you. The beautiful blonde speaks, her arm slung around her husband, 'Only five more days till you're a father three times over!' she is looking at you, and my insides freeze.

I stare at you.

Your eyes are apologetic, but I can see that you wish I had neither heard nor understood. The red haired siren smiles, cradles her belly, swollen once again with your get. 'My second, from you, her first and third.' I am certain my face is red with fury, and tears threaten in a burning haze. There is no way I will allow you to comfort me today. I spare you not a glance as I turn on my heel. You give an attempt to pursue me, but in vain.

The garden is a maze, that much I've seen to, with months of careful planning and arrangement. I left a year ago, and since then, it has blossomed into the verdant lovers' hiding place it was meant to be. But you do not know it as I do, and very soon, I lose you in the twisting vines, hide away in a nook that only I and the gardener know, and weep. The gardener approaches, watering can in hand, a frown furrowing his brow. I reach for him; though I have not seen him since I have returned, we worked together in the sun on this artificial forest, we have toiled and laughed, drank together, broke bread beneath the sky. There is nothing I would withhold from him. It was once like that for you. His arms, strong, with countless years of manual labour, and I recall fleetingly that I was, in main, a director when it came to this garden. It was he who transplanted the earth, dug and tilled, weeded with bare, calloused hands, and hauled water. I collapse against him, and he pushes the watering can away. He smells of sweat and honest work, his low voice soothing, as a fathers' to a wounded child.

'It will all work out well.' he croons, and I draw back to look up into his face. It is a venerable, weathered face, rugged. He is not forty, but his dark hair already silvers at the temples. His keen grey eyes look down at me, mouth set in a serious line. 'You will know.' he sighs. 'And your mother is set to pick out a wretched bottle of wine. You'll need to stop her.' he hands me my clothes, and I take them, shrugging carelessly into them, unblushingly forgetting modesty. He and I are kin, now. We have shared blood, bread, and tears. Heaven will recognize us as belonging to one another.

I think, with a twinge of sadness, how I belonged to you, once. It has been five years since first we met, and there have been bends in the road of our love. Once, you told me that you would move mountains for me. You could not move the motion of your own heart to honesty with me, even for something of import like this. He watches as I move away, bare feet hidden by the hem of my dress, confidently through the lovers' maze, toward the house. I hear your voice, asking after me, and I manage to slip through the halls undetected to the front door, where a groom is only just putting away the horses. I stop, and inquire whether there is a gelding I might ride hard, only for five minutes. He silently hands me the reins of a blood bay, gelded because of his high birth, but useless as a sire because of a fault in his ears. He is readily saddled and bridled, just in from a brief joy ride over a hill. He takes to the pace I set like a fish to water, lunging forward joyfully into the streets, accustomed and unafraid of the commotion, and we make our way swiftly toward the grocery some blocks away.

Bartleby and Spencer's is not primarily a wine-shop, though there are choice vintages to be had, but I stop my mother just as she is purchasing a bottle of substandard, overpriced wine. I recommend to her a better, and move along to choose my own. Wine does not suit me today, I am made of stronger stuff. Perhaps a fine bourbon to share with the gardener, to put a brave face to the steel in my soul. I shake my head. Scotch today, a good bottle, aged twenty years and no less. I will have something of an age with me today. I take the bottle, and head toward the register. I do not hear the price, but pay in gold and leave directly. I pause at the broterie, inhaling the fragrance of the sweet, fresh loaves and the adjoining confiserie, with its heady aroma of coffee and pastries, and I feel your presence at my side. I do not look up. I know it is you, but I will not acknowledge you. I begin to walk, come abreast of my horse, and you follow, just behind me, at a respectful distance, but without allowing me to ignore you. I begin to mount the horse, and you take it by the bridle. He snorts and taps a foreleg on the cobblestones to show his displeasure at being so used.

'Well met, sir.' I nod to you. 'Do unhand me.'

'Not until you speak to me.'

'Speak to you, sir? I believe I am so doing at this moment. You can ask nothing more of me.'

'Can I not? Have you not pledged yourself to me, if not as a lover, as a friend? Can I not prevail to you in this, my time of greatest need?'

'Should you not be prevailing upon at least one of those women, sir? I know one does not require you, as her husband appears to be rather more than capable of ensuring her safety, but there is a wronged woman involved, and you are the culprit of both her children. Mayhap she will please you with this one, and bear a daughter.' I seized upon your moment of weakness to pull the horse's head out of your weakening grasp, and whirl him round. He takes to the canter easily, and I scarcely have need of directing him. He knows the way toward home, and I have need of thought.

When I arrive, I inquire after the gardener. He has gone home for the day. I am disappointed, yes, but there is more to drink for me this way. Supper is ready, but I cannot be bothered to take some. My body yearns for something better than sustenance. I no longer have a room in this house; I am a stranger to my own property, and the boudoirs that could be given have been let to visitors. However, there is still my library, which no one could have touched. I have hidden it away by magic, and fairy-spirits sleep in its cobwebs.

As I enter, it is illuminated by torches and candles, shimmering in their stands, held aloft by gleaming brazen arms. The fairies are asleep, crowded together in dusty corners, and I am careful not to dislodge them as I measure scotch into a decanter, and stow the bottle in a hidden nook. There are two glasses, always, on the table, and I pour two, to indicate that the Raven King is permitted to join me. He has been my consort on occasion, when I have had need of unearthly passion, when love repulses me. I take down a book, ignoring drink till he has arrived, and arrive he does. He is silent, as ever, wearing only his raven-feather cloak and fae fashioned crown, moving with a grace and majesty conferred upon him by years of rule. He takes a glass in each hand, and approaches me wordlessly, offering one with an inclination of his head. I accept, and we salute one another, drink. The sweet burn of the liquour is a welcome sensation, the smooth finish, swirling down my throat in an ecstasy of delight. We drink in silence, draining the glasses to their dregs, and when they are empty, he refills them without touching the decanter. There is simply more scotch in our glasses, and less in the decanter.

We drink for what seems like hours, silently, and the intoxication creeps in on me. The eyes of the Raven King are upon me, always, burning black, as black as my own, but not, this time, with the passion he has ever fixed upon me. Tonight he is solemn, and thoughtful, and for a moment, I worry that he has no desire for me. I am wrong, so wrong. I put aside my glass and make obeisance to him, wondering whether I could have displeased him.

He sweeps me into his arms, his mouth suddenly hot on mine, his lips as smooth as glass, as fine as air, but moving and warm, alive, so alive.

He overpowers me. He knows I would never resist him. The lust ignites in my belly, and I tremble against him. He glories in my silent surrender, the yielding that I only, of all his consorts, am capable of.

His hands, pale and elegant and made for war, pull the dress from my skin, first untying the points of my flounces, the knots in my corset, layer from layer, and I feel as though he has ceased to undress me, but rather, he is peeling away the flesh from my spirit, leaving me unfettered for him.

It is always like this, with him. Not hot and rough and immediate, as it always has been with you. Not the consummated lust of a moment, the whispered promise of love, without words, without ceremony. This is an unveiling. This is a yearning, a submission granted over thousands of years. Every time he comes to me, I fear that the hours spent with him will cross centuries elsewhere, but he is merciful.

When I stand, naked and trembling before him, his arms come around me, his body finally flush against me, flesh a steady burn to mine, meeting and compensating for our lack of divinity. He kisses me again, with passion to spare, but only a hesitant meeting, only a brush of his lips on mine--a promise.

And then he spins me, my back against him, the brand of his throbbing manhood against the inside of my thigh, and as he slowly thrusts against me, I can feel my own fluids sliding slickly against my skin. I cannot help but moan at the twist inside, how he makes time dance for him, how he extends the moments and shortens the hours. His breath, just skimming my neck, is the only warning, and he spears into me smoothly. I hear someone cry out in pleasure, and there is a moment when I do not realize it was me, singing out his masterful use of my body. It is all sensation, being filled in the most intimate way.

He has not made a sound, but I can feel the steady rhythm of his breath, his hands hard on my sides as he lifts me effortlessly, sliding me back down, lifts me, looses me.

I slam down on his phallus, impaling myself, and he lifts me again. The edge is so near, has been since the moment he entered the room. His chest convexes with the effort, and his breathing has become audible now, rough and ragged, and he turns me, so his eyes burn into mine, overends the both of us, so we crash to a divan, pinioning my wrists above my head, driving into me at a speed that takes all conscious thought away and I scream encouragements to him, my sight swirling, sensation overtaking, and I crest on a wave of pleasure.

There are many more waves, this night, as he takes me again and again, at his pleasure, in ways he never has before. It is always like this, with him. Our stamina is near indefatigable, we have coupled for days, sometimes, without pausing, often without speaking.

It feels like days till he stops. He has taken his pleasure with me, he has sustained his own suffering, and stoppered my anger with satisfaction. I get to my feet, and he murmurs a promise in my ear, in his low voice, rich with magic. I am cradled, still, in the cage of his arms, his lean body sliding restively against mine. 'I will come to you when you please, till the bottle is dry.' it is as much power as I have ever had over him, to call him at will. I glance at the decanter. It is full again, and half again as much in the bottle still. My body thrums again in anticipation. He chuckles, the sound reverberating in the empty library. 'You are undefeatable in passion, my little one.' he stoops and kisses my brow. 'You have shackled me to you, my darling.' the surprise blossoms in my heart.

'It was not my purpose, my Lord, to chain you.'

'No. And it would not have come to pass had my heart not been in it. I have willed it, you have made it so. This is no longer nameless desire, my darling.' his mouth teases mine, only for a moment. 'This is a promise of forever, should you choose to submit to it.'

'My Lord, I am yours in body, but doubtless you know…'

'I have seen into your heart, and in whose name it beats.' his brow creases. He was brought up in Fae, and has little concept of morality, but he is human, still, after everything. 'I will not harm him. He rushes to his own demise, my darling, and though his feeling is as profound for you as yours for him, he has more pride even than a king.' I ache to hear it.

'He has less time than you or I, my Lord.'

'Yes.' his whisper sends shivers of warmth into ever corner of my nerves.

'Oh good my Lord,' I dare to raise my eyes to his, dare to touch his face, as beloved by my body as another's is to my soul. 'I will learn to love you.'

'I will not waver in my love for you.'

'I know it.' his promise is as good as God's. There is no motive to lie. He has no reason to tell me he has any feeling for me; I do not require it, and there are no games to play between us. 'And should I tame my restless heart, it shall belong first to you.'

'You say this because I am powerful,' he croons, drawing his raven-feather cloak like a shadow around him. 'You say this because I am your master. I tell you, you are the very mistress of me. Say the word, and my kingdoms three are yours. Say the word, and I bow to you, in the presence of these, my subjects.' he motions round the room to the fairies, who are still sound asleep in their cobwebs.

'Oh good my Lord, you know my word to you is bond. You know I can no more speak a lie in your presence than cause the heavens to crumble and fall into the sea.'

'I would do as much for you, should you ask.'

'I do not ask. I only submit, my Lord.' I give him my obeisance, signalling the end of our rendezvous, and he kisses me once more. I cannot help the tremour of my nerves. He is like air to me, but you are life itself. I am yours, but I give myself to him.

He is gone, absorbed into the air as a raindrop in a pool. It is the most natural thing in the world for him to disappear, and I never expect him to walk out the door like I must.

When I do, you are standing there, and stumble back, as though you had your ear pressed close to hear the goings-on in the room. I know all you could have heard is a distant garble of nonsense. I have had wards placed upon the thresholds of every wall. You stare at me, unclad as a nymph and given a subtle glow, the effects of my coupling with the Raven King.

'Good even.' I am civil to you now. I can hold no spite for anyone when I have been with him.

'Good even. Have you supped?'

'I have not.' the liquour I have taken begins to seep back into my blood, and the world is dizzying. Your face, your beautiful hair, your golden angel plays a villain to the Raven King's black fae hero.

'I have wronged you.' you stammer, unsure of yourself, for once in your life. I laugh lightly, and I know it frightens you. You fear your dismissal, for I have, in a few hours' time, become as much your queen as the Raven King's. He has given me a glamour over mere mortals, for as long as my strength will hold it. He wishes his mistress to be desired by all, but sacred only to him. Any man may touch me, should I wish it, and he will be pleased by it. It is a tribute to him, my beauty, conferred by him upon my flesh.

'My dear, I am not wronged. It is those women you have dishonoured. I am only rather put out not to have been invited to your confidences. I have ever given you mine.' I have told you all that is in my heart, but that which has to do with the King and his subjects.

'I should have told you…it is not meet that you learned this from another's lips.'

'It is finished.' I put a hand to your lips, and you tremble beneath me as I tremble beneath my King. 'It is finished, my dear.' I glide away, as though I were girt in royal robes, rather than spider webs and my own skin, and you come after me.

'Wait,' you extend your hand, pull something from my hair. 'What is this?' you hold it in the line of my vision. A raven feather, from his cloak.

'It is a feather.' I smile, mysteriously. How could you ever suspect that it is a gift? I take it in my hand. It is a strong, primary feather. 'Here. It will make a handsome pen, once trimmed and split.'

'I do not want a pen.' you protest, rejecting it. 'There is you, only you.'

'Only me?' I laugh again, and my mirth, I know, is only discomfiting you further. 'My darling,' I use the epithet he uses to me, the endearment an ice in my mouth, 'there are two women beneath this roof who carry your seed in them. I do not begrudge you the world of women, love, but me, you will not have.'

'I have had you. I have owned you. You would have crawled at my feet for a tender word from me, once.'

'Yes. I would have. I would still.' it is an effort to look at you, and I know you are moments away from making a fool of yourself for me. I never desired a fool. 'I love you, and I am yours. But you will not have me. The world is open to you,' I motion down the hall, a stark command. 'Take my love into your bosom, like a tongue of fire, and quench it in the loins of others.' I have become solemn, and you are more afraid of my anger, now, than my laughter.

'What can I do?' you plead. 'What can I do to earn you?'

'There is nothing to do. Once, it was what you did not do. And you could never earn me. I have myself to freely give, and I have bestowed the bounty of my heart upon you.' there, it is all open now. I cannot take these words back. 'I have given my body, and you have taken it, discarded both for the pleasures of others. I have retained my will through it all, and I do not fault your need. I have had my own.' I draw the feather through my fingers meaningfully, but you know nothing of the King, let alone that I hold his deathless heart. 'But the time for us has passed. What might have been and what is are separate beings. Let it be so, and let us be friends.'

'I have yearned for you.'

'I have wept for you.' I speak without bitterness, without rancour. I know it to be true, and it is enough. I lean forward, my lips against your ear, and whisper the words again. 'I have wept for you, my darling, and evermore will.' I press a kiss to your neck, just beneath your ear, feel the pulse beating against my lips, the life in you, the mortal, fallible blood. I have underestimated you, the reaction of your heart, the strength in your mind. You have me against the wall before I can intake another breath, green eyes, glowing in the deepening gloom, as lost and helpless as a babe's.

'I have loved you,' you murmur, 'and evermore will.' the promise is lost in my moan of anguish.

'There is no evermore for us now, my darling.' I whisper against your lips, and I know my nerves, as jangled as they are, can no longer tremble as I pull myself from the cage of your arms, smile into your eyes, and flee down the hall in a tangle of my own limbs.