AN: I'm still in Cebu on assignment. So the parts are coming in little spurts. Lol. When I get back to Manila, it should be better.
Part 9
They were like thunderclap. It was the sound of the simultaneous disengaging of the locks around them.
For the whole two minutes since the message, they stood in stationary silence, close together in the distance that did not exist between people who had only moments before been locked in a kiss. She looked up into his eyes, then her hands tightened in the front of his shirt. In response, his fingers in her hair released and ran down to her neck. She shivered at the heat from his skin.
For a brief moment his thumbs brushed her throat.
Her lips parted, and she rose on her tiptoes then pulled him down simultaneously.
She understood why the world was so afraid of him. She should be so afraid, but he tasted like no one, tasted her like no one ever did.
"You're free," he whispered, sullen, as if it were the worst in the world.
And that she barely heard. Or that she chose to ignore.
She pitched forward, abruptly, thoughtlessly, that he had to catch her by the waist. Kisses, kisses, they were heady. She was in the clouds. Kisses upon kisses. More and more until she was breathless with kisses.
"Once upon a time," she heard her father say in her head, "there lived the most beautiful princess in the world."
His hot mouth was insistent, branding kisses on her face, up her jawline until she felt his tongue slither up to her earlobe. Her head fell back and a little moan escaped from her.
"Up high in the clouds," her father had said.
She spied the slow motion of the windows sliding open to reveal the glass walls. They were so high she saw nothing from here. As the sun broke through the ever widening slits, bathing the once dark room in stark, honest light.
"Until one day, something went very wrong," came Harold's memorable voice.
"I've wanted you for so long," she heard Chuck whisper in her ear. She cupped his face in her hands and pulled his lips back on hers. She breathed harshly, and she slowly pushed him back, almost reluctantly, so she could see him now.
In the daylight sun—
With his lips bruised from her kisses, his hair mussed from her fingers, his eyes intent and boring into her.
He was no Knight, no savior, no angel.
She caught herself. She shook her head, almost violently. Blair stepped backwards. Her hand rose to her neck and she felt the sticky nectar that had dried in patches on her skin. She swallowed and still tasted him in her mouth.
"I have to go home."
And he asked, "Why?"
Blair rushed to the glass wall that should overlook Manhattan, the way they said in all the stories it would. In the Dark Prince's lair you could see his whole realm spread below him. They were pieces in his chess game, they said. He would stand and look down at them all, move them around to his pleasure. From that vantage she knew she could catch a glimpse of her home. With a glimpse, she was sure, the worry over her parents would somewhat abate.
And all she could see below her were clouds.
"There's nothing to see," she said upon realization.
She felt him move, knew the moment he was standing right behind her. His heat called to her, and she felt her body move very instinctively back a little, managed to keep herself from leaning back so that her entire body would touch him.
"There is nothing to see from up here," he told her. And then, almost as if he knew her own mind, his hands closed over her upper arms. The contact sent a thrill of pleasure, like a lightning bolt, through her.
There was magic here. Perhaps not the magic that everyone thought, that was documented in the Archives, that was painted and sung by artists who knew not enough to distinguish between art and reality.
The best art did not reflect life. It distorted life.
It had never been more true than now.
"There's a light," he said.
Blair listened carefully, felt her heart creep up from her chest to her throat. She did not know why, but even before he continued the tears already gathered in her eyes. It was his voice. It was the naked emotion that cowered behind the guarded voice. "What light?"
"There's nothing to see up here, except for a lone light." And then his arm rose. He pointed to an area to the right down below. "Over there," he shared. "At night, since I was young, there has been one light that I see."
When she was young she looked up at his, ever permanent, never dying.
"But when it's darkest, it flickers out," he told her. "Don't leave me."
There was magic here, she thought. It was inside him; it radiated from him; it called her to him. It was not an insidious thing that would jump out in the darkness and eat her. It was not the black magic of a monster lying in wait.
It was a light in the dark night that no one could ever extinguish.
She spun around so she could see his face. "Do you love me?"
He frowned. His gaze moved from the blank clouds and to her. "I don't know what that means."
And the nightlight that never died flickered in the stagnant room. Over his shoulder, she saw the door behind him open. Blair stepped to the side.
And there he stood, stepping into the light of the room from the shadow. Her White Knight, perfect and eager, concerned and strong and ready.
"Blair, are you alright? I made it back as fast I could," he said. The Palace guards who had accompanied her up quickly walked past him and assessed the room.
The Dark Prince's reply still rang in her ears. She hurried towards her Knight, favoring her sore ankle. The farther she drew from Chuck, the nearer she grew to Nate, the less the punishing heat. She stopped a foot away from Nate, who closed the gap between them and drew her into his arms.
"Back?" she managed softly.
"I was here, but we didn't have the code. So I searched for it, had to go elsewhere. I found Lily and—"
"All that?" she gushed. "You did all that."
"I love you," he answered, as if it explained it all.
And to Blair Waldorf, to the princess whom all the girls envied, to the daughter who basked in the love of a father, it did.
She glanced back at Chuck, who stood in front of the window, now no more than a silhouette with the sunlight streaming behind him. He was a figure, dark, imposing still, but drawing back. She could not see his face, not anymore. In the comfortable warmth of Nate's protective embrace, the Dark Prince was merely a memory.
She licked her lips, and they tasted of fruit and a hint of brandy.
She felt Nate bury his nose in her hair, the way he often did. It was a show of affection. He touched her hair and pushed a lock behind her ear.
"Nate, let's go," she urged him.
"You smell faintly of—what is that?"
Mangoes.
Nate frowned, then hazarded a guess. "Is that vanilla?"
She swallowed. Her eyes moved to the shadowed figure of the Dark Prince. "Mangoes," she admitted.
"Mangoes," Nate repeated. He looked towards Chuck.
And then she heard Chuck again, for the first time since the response that she would remember every night from now on. And now, the Dark Prince said, "Mangoes. Sweet and dripping, with the soft flesh that you could wrap your tongue around. I hear you enjoy them too."
"That's not how I remember them."
"I'm sure," returned the Dark Prince.
And then, Nate's hand tightened around hers. He then released her hand, then walked towards Chuck Bass. Blair watched, and could not hear, but the image of the two standing against the light was odd. Even then, she could see Nate's face, intent, almost pleading.
And she could see none of the Dark Prince's face at all.
And then Nate strode back to her, brave and firm. He feared no one, not even Chuck. His arm wrapped around her waist, and he led her out to the door. Blair looked back towards Chuck, but he had turned his back to her now.
That quickly.
So easily could he forget.
She allowed Nate to take her to the elevator. It was her imagination, perhaps, brought on by an unuttered wish. Nate's hand was around hers as they entered. Just before the doors closed, she thought she saw him look away from the guards and at her.
"You're exhausted," Nate said when they stepped off the elevator.
They stood by the Palace doors. She could see the Chariot waiting outside. The last time she had been inside was the night after she had refused Nate's proposal. Even after the shame of it all, he had offered to bring her home.
She looked at his clear blue eyes. They were eyes that could not lie. She could not hide the truth from eyes so noble.
"Nate, when I was there—"
He placed her hand on his arm."It's alright."
"I should tell you," she said.
"Anything that happens in the Palace stays in the Palace," he assured her.
And there was a flicker in his noble blue eyes. Uncertaintly, for a brief moment. A flush of guilt, for longer.
"Nate?" she prompted.
"We won't talk about it. I understand." And then, he confessed. "I know Chuck Bass. We don't have to address this, Blair."
"Can I live with that?" And then she wondered why it was a question to him, when it was all about her.
"We will."
And then he stepped forward, out into the light. She was bathed in the sun that she had missed. Blair hesitated, just before they entered the Chariot. She extended her arm, saw the bright light shine on her skin. She waited. Waited until it burned.
Warm, she thought. It could not compare to the heat of another person's skin on hers.
Even the sun was not hot enough.
She glanced up at the towering building, but like always, when down here in the world, one could not see.
"Come on," Nate urged. "Go in. It's bright out. We don't want you to get burned," he cautioned.
"No," she agreed. "We don't want that."
"I'll take you home," he offered. "Your parents are worried about you."
Blair entered the Chariot, and she sighed at the familiar surroundings, the cool temperature across the aircondition vent. She settled in and burrowed into Nate's side. He dropped a kiss on her hair. She placed a hand on his chest. "Thank you, Nate," she said. "I could always count on you."
Her White Knight would save her from anything. In that, out of all the things in the world, she was certain. From the day she had fallen down the steps and he caught her, to the day she closed her eyes for the last time. From the first kiss, to the last. Nate Archibald would always be her savior.
"I will be here, Blair. Always have. I always will."
She nodded, leaned her head on his shoulder. He smelled like champagne, she thought. The kind that Lily van der Woodsen kept in stock. It was wonderful and bubbly and light, and it smelled like celebration. Chuck had smelled like the brandy he had pushed towards her to dull away the pain after she had already hurt herself.
She flexed her sore ankle. Nate Archibald loved her enough that she had never twisted her ankle when she was with him.
"Go on and sleep," he told her. "I'll wake you up when we get to your house." She yawned. "You'll be safe with me."
Harold cleared his throat, then said with a grin, "You're sleepy, princess."
"You didn't finish the story."
"We'll continue tomorrow," he promised her.
She was sleepy, and her eyes were crossing and she could see double her daddy now. But something had been very wrong, and she wanted to know what it was. "What went wrong, daddy?"
"The princess went to sleep, a very deep sleep. Only her true love could wake her up."
tbc
