Flame and Ice

This is the new, clean, PG-13 version of my original lemon story. Since that's no longer legal, I took advantage of the opportunity to return to the story, polish the rough edges, fix identified character problems, and general make it a better work of art. The story really didn't need to be a lemon; I just wanted to try writing one. Now that I've had more experience with lemon writing, I've decided that this one would be better euthanized and resurrected as nice, clean romance.

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.
I know you, the gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam.
Yet I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem.
But if I know you, I know what you'll do.
You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream.
--from the The Walt Disney Sleeping Beauty

Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess. One day she met her bright, shining prince who swept her off her feet, faced dangers uncountable for her, slew dragons in her name, and rescued her from an evil magician. Then they rode off into the sunset together on his white horse, and they lived happily ever after.

Lucky princess with silver-blonde hair, blue-green eyes, and skin so pale and opalescent. Princesses get heroes and princes to love and cherish them. Lucky princess with her wonderful, handsome prince. Her dark-haired, blue-eyed, dashing, heroic prince.

We cannot all be princesses. Some of us are plain, ordinary women who must work for our bread. We want princes too, but who will look at a plain, red-haired woman, dressed in dusty leather armor, when there's a fair elven princess in need of rescue? How can a simple mercenary compete with that?

I could hate her sometimes, even if I don't really want her hero. I don't. It doesn't stop me from being jealous. I don't have a prince or anyone to rescue me. I don't have a shoulder to lean on when I'm weary. For me there won't be a white horse and a sunset. Just another day of fighting and killing. I don't want her prince. I want a prince or hero all my own. Someone to be strong for me for just five minutes so I don't have to be strong for myself. Selfish, isn't it?

I suppose deep down all anyone wants is to be loved.

Around her people danced, and the music was merry. Shiris stared at the people around her, all dressed in beautiful court-clothing. She looked down at her own finery, a deep red gown. It was a beautiful gown, not at all suited to a rough mercenary woman, she thought. It was too delicate, too fine, too rich. All the things she wasn't.

She scanned the crowd for faces she knew and found many of them. There was Parn dancing with Deedlit, both of them smiling and laughing. There were Etoh and Fianna, equally gay in silk robes of state. Even Slayn and Leylia were dancing with what looked like stars in their eyes. Shiris leaned back against the wall, feeling almost melancholy. There was no place for her in all of this. She turned abruptly to leave the bright ballroom, for the dark gardens outside. She didn't fit there either, among the beautiful flowers, but at least there was no one there to see her . . . a mercenary, a woman who would never fit in anywhere. No one wants a mercenary.

Is something wrong, Shiris? Orson asked calmly, matching his pace to hers. He had stepped almost out of no where. Shiris knew better, but was disappointed with herself that she had been so lost in her own thoughts she had not noticed him. Her life sometimes depended on her observation. She should not allow herself to ignore reality so much.

she lied. I just need some fresh air.

He nodded, accepting her reply for what it was. They'd been partners long enough that he knew her moods.

They were silent as they walked through the dull, formal garden. Shiris was too deep in her thoughts to talk, and Orson was never inclined to speak unless he had something to say. He walked beside her quietly, as she paced the garden path, her stride long and forceful, as if she wore plain leather boots, rather than a dainty pair of silken dancing slippers. She paused momentarily to tear a rose from a bush. She ignored the pain as the thorns dug into her hands. After all, she was a mercenary. She was tough. She was used to pain. She didn't need anything from anyone.

Orson watched her with mild alarm.

She didn't look at him, but her stance dared him to say anything.

He did not accept the challenge, but turned and continued walking the dim garden path. Shiris hurried to catch up with him. You're really very boring, Orson.I'm sorry, he said.

There you go again. You never even argue with me.

He turned his head. Did it ever occur to you, Shiris, that I know it would be futile to try arguing with you? You're more than stubborn enough for both of us. Shiris broke the head of the flower off of its stem and tossed the stem over her shoulder. The petals were soft and velvety in her palm.

I did mean that as a compliment, he added.

She clenched her fist around the flower and threw it in his face.

He stared at her for a moment and began, inconceivably, to laugh.

She tapped her foot impatiently.

At the risk of sounding cliche and at the risk of more bodily harm than a few rose petals, I have to say that you're beautiful when you're angry. Orson's face showed more emotion that it usually did. Shiris just wished she knew what emotion it was.

What are you playing at? she asked hotly.

Orson shrugged. Weren't you just asking me to be less boring? I won't argue with you. It would be pointless. I won't get angry with you. You've seen me when I'm angry, and you know that it is not a pretty thing.So instead you mock me? Her hand was pulled up as if about to strike him.

Orson shook his head slowly. No, I wasn't mocking you, at all. I meant what I said. You're very beautiful when you're angry. By far the prettiest woman I've ever seen.Now you are lying. I can't compete with, oh, Deedlit, for instance. Shiris glowered slightly in the dark, aware that they'd hit on one of the topics that was bothering her. The hand dropped back to her side.

Orson looked puzzled. No comparison. What's a flower compared to a flame?You're poetic tonight.

He shrugged. It's a very apt comparison. Deedlit's a very sweet little flower, something pale and exquisite. A lily, maybe, or a gardenia. You're like a flame. You burn from the inside out, and you'll burn up anyone stupid enough to treat you as anything less than a flame. A flame is a very nice thing, but all the same it's best to keep it at arm's reach.

Too dangerous to touch, she thought and agreed with him. No wonder I'm so lonely. Even my partner thinks I'm best kept at a distance.

That's why I'm so cold sometimes, even though I can feel things again. You need me to be ice to temper your fire, he continued. I'm the only one who's safe from you.I could burn you if I liked, she stated.

You couldn't, he replied.

She turned to face him again, her eyes boring into his. Is that so?

He nodded slightly.

We'll see about that! Shiris stepped straight up to him and kissed him full on the lips. She was surprised herself that she did this. She hadn't intended to. She was more surprised as Orson returned the kiss. He felt warm in the cool night air. She kissed him harder. If she was flame she could melt through all that ice and burn him. If nothing else she refused to lose again.

Orson accepted the kiss calmly, kissing back gently. It felt very good, Shiris decided, but she knew she had not melted him yet. She deepened the kiss, throwing passion and, yes, fire into it. He returned the kiss with equal passion, but still he was in control of himself, still strong, still very much the Orson she had always depended on.

Moments passed, before his arms surrounded her. Shiris found herself to be the one melting. She broke the kiss and leaned against his chest, feeling . . . immensely happy.

He looked down at her from his thoughtful green eyes, and she realized that something in him had melted, as well. You forgot something, my love. Ice is made of water which, once melted, can always conquer flame.

The End.