Untitled - BoG-Archive

My Beloved
by Athelas63
I sit at the foot of the bed and watch him sleep. He lies on his stomach, his
dark blond hair fanned across his face, moving gently with each soft snore. I had
nearly given up on his coming. Early in the evening, I had heard the trumpets
announce his arrival into the city, immediately followed by the deeper note of his
own horn. I waited, hoping. But the hours had passed and he did not come, so I
prepared for bed. Just as I bent to blow out the candles, he came through the
door. I hugged him close, and he laid his head on my shoulder. I could feel his
weariness. He was so exhausted he merely pulled off his clothes and collapsed
into bed. Now, I sit and watch my beloved at rest.
He has bathed, and carries no weapon, so I know he has already been to
the Citadel and made his report to his father. I know hours have been taken from
my time with him so that he can give the same information that he has been
giving for years. The darkness is growing, the enemy is gaining strength. What
point is there to once again say it? What good to repeat the same story? I sigh.
Taking a bottle of oil from the shelf behind me, I pour a generous amount
into my hand and begin to massage his shoulders. The muscles are tight and as I
rub I hear his soft groan. “Shh, rest,” I whisper, working my way down his bare
back and running my hand across his ribs. I marvel again at the many scars, some
so old they are faint and white, some new enough to be pink and puckered. All
his life he has known only battle, and he bears the marks of many struggles. I
work the oil into his flesh, feeling the knotted muscles relax.
When I’ve finished his back, I move down to his legs. They are hard
bunches of muscle, perfect for the work of carrying armor and bearing him
toward war. His feet are flat and calloused. I knead the oil in between each toe
and am rewarded with a sigh of pleasure. When at last I finish with his feet, I
pour out more oil and return to his back, moving slightly lower as I go. He shifts
slightly. An invitation? I see a slight smile on his lips, and so I return to my work.
Soon the groans are more urgent, and suddenly, with astounding quickness, he
turns and grabs my wrist, pulling me down onto the bed beside him.
Propping himself up on his elbow, his soft, sleepy eyes smile at me. “Can a
man not get any sleep here?”
“I’m sorry, my lord.” I smile back. “I thought only to make your rest
more… pleasant.”
96