The mirror wasn't always kind. It had been in the past, in those first years wearing Whites, when women and men alike acted as though he was some sort of demi-God incarnate. Even after his first few stints on the Karsite border, he'd retained his youthful beauty, his face showing few hints of the damage the rest of his body—and soul—had felt.
But now? He shook his head amusedly, eyeing his reflection again. I look every bit my age this morning, he thought ruefully, reaching a hand up to lightly touch the delicate wrinkles around his eyes. His hair had more white in it than ever, and taking that harrowing mid-winter trip back from Rethwellan certainly hadn't done him any favors. Gods, I'll be forty in a fortnight or so. And it's not just my face—he had bones that ached; many had been previously broken or abused in some matter, not to mention the thick scar tissue that throbbed on his chest and back. He let his gaze travel down from his face to the reflected bare, muscled torso. At least I still have my body... although…. Thin white lines, three of them, marred his skin from neck to groin; a cross-hatch scar his chest; a stab wound his back; another deep furrow his shoulder—he grimaced. It's not exactly what it used to be, either.
An image flashed in his mind of him with Tylendel, tussling nude before 'Lendel's floor-length mirror. Tylendel had stopped and turned them both to face the mirror, whispering to him, Look how perfect you are, love. And he'd looked—and he had been. Gods.
He heard a rustling from the attached room and shook off the memory, along with the misplaced vanity. Casting one last look in the glass, he sighed. This is you, now, Van. You're forty. He turned and walked back into the room.
The sight that greeted him was lovely: Stefen was sprawled on the bed, a bit of dark red hair curling across one eye. The covers were in utter disarray, leaving his slender, youthful torso bare to Vanyel's eye. He certainly looks his age, too, he thought, feeling almost ashamed. Much, much younger than me. For a moment, he let his mind play with the notion of a younger Vanyel meeting Stefen. A small chuckle escaped him; his seventeen-year-old self would likely have been much intimidated and much more easily seduced. I worry… he's so beautiful, so young and untouched by the ravages of time. Is it really possible to bridge such a gap in experience? The physical is only the reflection of the emotional. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his chin in his hand. He does have a strange maturity, though. Perhaps from his childhood… he thought back to the stories Stefen had told him from his time on the streets, many horrible.
"Van?" a soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Why are you up?"
"Just thinking," he murmured in return, pulling his robe shut and turning to face Stefen, who was rubbing sleepy eyes.
"You do too much of that," Stefen replied, sitting up and looking over at him quizzically. "And why are you closingyour robe?"
Vanyel shrugged and flushed. "Habit, I suppose."
Rolling his eyes, Stefen commented, "Well, take it off and come back in here."
After a brief hesitation, Vanyel undid the sash and slipped out of the silk material, still feeling uncharacteristically self-conscious from earlier. He was only too aware of how the early morning light glanced across the white lines of scars and his too-tight cords of muscle.
Stefen seemed to sense something of this, for he opened his eyes again and muttered, "Out with it, love, what's bothering you?"
"Nothing," Van replied quietly, folding the robe and laying it carefully aside. Sliding under the blankets, he moved closer to Stefen.
Stefen slipped an arm under him, pulling him over and onto his chest. "It's definitely something. Are you still thinking about last night? The gift? Because, Van—"
"No, no, I wasn't thinking about that at all," he said, then sighed against Stefen's chest. "I was just watching you sleep."
"And…?"
"And you looked so peaceful, so young…" Vanyel trailed off, shaking off Stefen's arm and sitting up so that the covers fell down.
"Hm." Stefen looked at him with a faint smile. "Let me try to find the demon in that seemingly innocent sentence—could it be the word young?" He shook his head. "Are you still worried about what people will think of you for being with me? About what it might do to your political reputation?"
"No!" Vanyel said emphatically, straightening and looking at Stefen. "No, Stef, I don't care about that anymore. Not at this point—not knowing that I would never give you up."
"So… it's that you're 'old?'" He finally asked.
Vanyel didn't say anything and Stefen sighed. "Is it bothering you because I'm not everything you might want? Are there things you feel like we can't share?"
"Of course not, you're everything—" he paused and looked away. "—I was just looking in the mirror this morning. While you slept. And I look old, Stef. I'm weary; I have bags under my eyes; wrinkles…" he gestured to his bare torso, "…not to mention the fact that a dead mercenary has less scars than I do." His breath caught and he looked back to Stefen. "I don't want you to be stuck with me ten years from now, when you're fresh and lovely and still in your prime. Already… I worry you might grow attracted to someone else. Someone younger. The worst part is, I would understand. I wouldn't even be angry. Because this isn't fair to you—to ask you to wait for me for months at a time while I'm away, to watch as I grow older and more scarred, while you live the best years of your life."
Stefen was silent for a moment and Vanyel felt a brief hint of fear catch inside him. Did something happen while I was away…?
"Vanyel, I don't know how to say this in words you'll believe, but I love you. Only you. I had plenty of experiences with men my own age before you, and nothing ever compared—nothing was ever even in the same universe—to how I feel with you. Emotionally, physically, in every single way. And…" he rolled on top of Vanyel, straddling him and taking his face into both hands. "…you absolutely do not look forty, and even if you did, you would be the most gorgeous forty year old Valdemar had ever seen. These—" he bent his head to kiss the scar on his shoulder "—only show how much you've given up for other people. They're testament to the man I love, the man that lives behind that court mask." He raised his head and kissed Vanyel's mouth, then, which was just beginning to turn upward in the first hint of a smile. "You couldn't be more perfect in my eyes."
Holding up his hands in mock surrender, Vanyel truly smiled. "Ah, Stef, what did I ever do to deserve you?"
Stefen's response, while not verbal, was certainly enthusiastic.