Kiss the Shadow
Chapter 6: Pierced by the Rose--Part two
The ride back to the Cathedral took longer than Grissom had hoped. His mare was as stubborn as ever, having been ridden hard all that evening and night. Guildenstern's silver gelding was no better off; the scent of its master's blood was making it skittish. Neither had thought at the time to bring with them a torch, either; the forest trail stretched out ahead of them like the entrance to a mountain cave, cold and silent. Despite these hindrances Guildenstern made no sound of complaint or urgency. Grissom had to admit that he was impressed and relieved by his captain's composure—certainly he would not have been so calm with a similar injury. He said nothing, however, focusing only on the path.
When at last the pair broke out of the forest overlooking Icili's slumbering form, Grissom sighed openly in relief. "Almost there," he murmured, turning his head to check on his companion. "How are you fairing, sir?"
"Well enough," Guildenstern replied. Though his palm was pressed tightly to his wounded side, his face was unmoved. "Let us make haste."
"Of course." He hurts more than even I know. The commander urged his horse onward, down the road that would take them into the city.
By the time the pair had entered the Crimson Blade's compound, the hour had progressed so late into night that the halls were deserted. Grissom pursed his lips as he hastily delivered their mounts to the stables, then joined his captain at the barrack entrance. "Can you make it as far as your quarters unaided?" he asked, glancing about in hopes of finding another soldier that he could send to fetch the physician. "I will send for Sir Louress, then make the proper reports."
But when he looked for his captain's approval, he found the man leaning heavily against the stone entranceway, his eyes closed as he attempted to recover from a shortness of breath. The muscles along his jaw were drawn tight and pained. Fresh blood slid lazily over his already soiled fingers.
Dear God. Grissom suppressed a shudder. He could die from a wound that deep. Doing his best to hide his trepidation, he approached swiftly and pulled Guildenstern's arm over his shoulders. "I'll accompany you," he said briskly, pulling the man away from the wall.
Guildenstern grumbled a protest, pushing away from him. "There's no need," he assured, walking a few steps on his own. His gait was uncertain and halting. "You must make our report, and contact the workers—" He broke off suddenly as his footing betrayed him. Were it not for Grissom's quick reaction, he surely would have tumbled to the floor.
"Aye, it shall all be done soon enough." Again Grissom accepted nearly all of Guildenstern's weight against him, guiding him down the corridor. Their footsteps echoed eerily across the stone. "But at present my only concern is for you, Captain. Please, do not injure yourself further."
Guildenstern sighed heavily, relaxing against his commander's aid. There was pain in that sound, and a resignation in his lethargic movements. For a moment Grissom was hit by an inappropriate feeling of pride in knowing that he was being trusted and depended on. Though it was disturbing to see the strongest of them reduced to such a state, it was also oddly comforting. He is not so far above us after all. He is one of us, and he trusts me. God, have mercy.
As soon as they entered Guildenstern's quarters Grissom eased his captain down into a sturdy wooden chair near the wall. He fell into it easily, expelling a low breath around a grunt of pain. From there Grissom hesitated. Though he should have left immediately to rouse the physician, the pale leather of Guildenstern's cheeks and the shallowness of his breath convinced him not to leave the man alone. Quickly he set upon the straps holding his armored chest plate. "Lie still, if you would," he instructed through his teeth. "Do you keep bandages in your room?"
"Aye. In the drawer, near the bed." Guildenstern grimaced, easing him away from the tangle of bronze clasps. "I can manage this. Fetch the cloth."
Grissom complied, anxiety making hands fumble at the drawer handles. A moment later he returned with a fistful of clean white fabric, and helped remove the chest armor. Whoever had committed this ungodly act had managed to slip a dagger just underneath its lowest lip. Trying to ignore the blood slicking his fingers as he worked, he unfastened the captain's thick leather belts and lifted his undershirt, thus revealing the wound at last.
Grissom sucked his breath in sharply at the sight. The wound carved just below his left ribs had been, as he suspected, created by a dagger - three inches wide and very deep, judging by the amount of blood. For a moment he knelt before it, frozen by his own panic, hands hovering indecisively over the torn flesh. "Sir Guildenstern…" he murmured, reaching hesitantly forward and then recoiling. He lifted his gaze fearfully, gazing upon his captain's sunken countenance. The air passing through his lips was short and weak.
Dear God…he will die, like this. Grissom licked his lips, reaching gingerly once more for the injury, pressing his palm flat against its mouth. I cannot let that happen. Even if it means endangering my own life…I pray you, make me not wrong.
Grissom closed his eyes, concentrating on the parted flesh beneath his trembling fingers. The spell fell softly from his lips—he hoped that, in his labored condition, Guildenstern would not notice. At least not until he had been healed. His power was tentative, uncertain, but his intentions were pure and within a few short minutes he could feel the skin warming. Gradually the incision began to knit together; the flow of blood slowed and then stopped, calming the soldier so that he could continue with greater security.
Guildenstern sighed contentedly. Thank God. Grissom concentrated his power, preparing another spell to deepen the effects of the first, when suddenly the captain's eyelids flew open, and his hand snapped about Grissom's poised wrist. Grissom started and fell still as a harsh, blue glare descended upon him. When the man spoke, his voice was clipped and lethal. "Father Grissom. What are you doing?"
Grissom gulped as a cold chill ran up his spine. Guildenstern's eyes held him transfixed, not unlike one of the cultists from that night, turning to find themselves beneath the commander's stave. "I…sir, you are wounded…I…."
Guildenstern continue to stare at him, the venom in his face unwavering. "Do you know what it is you do, commander?" There was none of the casual humor in his voice to which Grissom had become accustomed, not even the formal trust between officers. "These are Dark arts with which you meddle."
"Yes, I…." He tried to keep his will firm—he had been right to do this thing. "I am aware of that. I thought only…only to help you, sir."
"Help me." Guildenstern's eyebrow lifted slightly with cold condescension. "That is not the issue needed to be discussed."
Grissom watched with stunned confusion as Guildenstern lifted his free hand, pressing it over his wounded side. His lips moved subtly with some spell; with a flash of dull light and gentle heat, the gash sealed itself, both lips of ragged flesh pressed into a smooth surface once more. Already the color was returning to Guildenstern's face, though it still remained chiseled and hard. So, he knew, Grissom thought, though the expression of disappointment his leader bore quashed any feeling of relief that might have accompanied that realization. He has known of these arts.
"Sir," Grissom started, uneasily aware that his wrist was still captured in that crushing grip. "I…was not aware that you also knew of these practices."
Guildenstern snorted in chiding amusement. "As I assumed," he replied crisply. "That being the case, you should not have revealed yourself to me."
"My intention was only to help you," Grissom said in swift defense. "What does it matter now? You are well, and—"
The gloved fingers dug savagely into the underside of Grissom's wrist, forcing him to draw a swift gasp. "It matters. Everything matters, Father Grissom. This is a dangerous game we have been drawn into, and we cannot afford even the smallest of errors. What if you had revealed yourself to me, only to have me betray you?"
"But—but you could have died!" Grissom tugged on his hand, trying to recoil. "What would have become of our order then?"
Guildenstern regarded him sternly, unimpassioned. "I may have, though I doubt it. But it would be a small price, to keep this secret buried."
The commander shook his head, disbelieving of what he was hearing. A moment ago his leader had been pale and shaking, gripped by the icy glare of death—had his injury been so easily and completely mended? He felt suddenly like a fool, kneeling before the man with only childish reasoning to defend himself. Everyone is always one step ahead of me. He could have healed himself at any time, but chose not to, for the sake of remaining hidden. "Is it worth that much to you?" he asked, subdued. "You were with me alone—was it worth dying for, to keep one officer from seeing the truth? My own brother—"
"Made a decision he wasn't authorized to make," Guildenstern interrupted. "And was lucky, that you took so well to our order's secret. The careless tongue of one man can bring a painful death to us all, Father Grissom. Yes, it is worth dying for the fate of my men."
Grissom lowered his head, shame rising up in place of his confusion. "Then you have known for quite some time," he murmured distantly. His memories of this man rose once more, displayed across his dazed sight, giving explanation and reason to the many examples of his captain's extraordinary fortitude. "It is I alone that was not trusted enough to be informed."
Guildenstern's grip softened, though he did not yet release his younger officer. "It is not that I did not trust you well enough, Grissom," he spoke evenly, with the sincerity that was usual to his voice. "You are one of my most valued officers. And, truthfully, I am relieved that this accident did occur." When Grissom raised his eyes inquisitively, he explained. "Now I know that I can trust you more completely than even before."
The commander blinked, feeling the return of his pride at those simple words. He grinned slightly; at last he recognized the brotherly gleam in Guildenstern's clear eyes. "Thank you, sir. Though I have not known long what abilities I hold. I have much to learn."
"Of course. Perhaps that is something I can aid you with."
Grissom straightened—the opportunity to train his magick against Captain Guildenstern? If the man's recent display was any indication of what he was capable of, then certainly he could not refuse such an offer. He wanted never to be left behind by his fellows again. "I would be honored."
The captain nodded, though he seemed somewhat distracted from the subject. His eyes were focused and intense on his officer's face, as if searching. After a silent moment they calmed once more, and a faint grin spread to the corners of his lips. "Are you curious?" he asked, sounding amused.
"Curious, sir?" he echoed, bewildered.
"You now know that I have the powers of the Dark. Are you not curious as to how powerful I am?"
Grissom took his next breath slowly, wondering at his captain's intentions. Naturally he was—if Guildenstern could heal a lethal stab wound with a wave of his hand, what other powers were at his command? There was no way to know without demonstration. If Grissom was to come to understand his own power, did it not make sense to have some model to aspire to?
"Yes, sir," he answered at last, hiding the excitement he felt with a mask of calm indifference. "I am curious."
Guildenstern's grin deepened as he at last released Grissom's wrist so that he could remove his gloves and shoulder armor. His movements were slow and deliberate, making his company impatient. But the young officer held his voice still. When he had finished he offered his hand. "Take it."
Grissom complied eagerly, not knowing what to expect. Guildenstern looked calm; his eyes were shut loosely, his lips still curled and breath deep as if enjoying a pleasant dream. The younger man was about to question when he a chill ran up the length of his arm. The sensation was at first eerie, like the decent of a shadow over him. It moved in undulating currents over his skin, raising the hairs on his neck. But as the stream of power seeped deeper into him it brought with it a more familiar feeling: the shifting, anxious electricity that usually accompanied his using in the Dark. He remembered this from when Duane had healed his arm, experiencing the calming warmth of another spirit. He found it somewhat odd, however, that he could tell the difference between their two powers. Guildenstern's touch was more controlled, and yet brighter, like the stern wall of a river dam.
Grissom licked his lips, allowing his eyes also to shut. There was something comforting and intimate about this bizarre contact of minds. This cannot be all of it, he reasoned, waiting for Guildenstern's demonstration to continue. I know he is more powerful than this.
Guildenstern's hand tightened around his, as if having sensed his very thoughts. Without warning the barrier was stripped away, and Grissom gasped, wilting under the unexpected pressure. His essence was fiery and striking, like lightning, and it swept over him in waves. Though he knew his captain to be without equal, the raw, swirling energy was almost too much for him. Dear God, is this what true power feels like? I had no idea.... He gulped, trying to focus his mind even as a tremor ran through him.
Guildenstern's dull chuckle reached his ears. "Well, Commander?" he asked smugly. "What think you of real power?"
"I...." But Grissom could not find his voice to finish, so entwined in the intoxicating threads. He was only barely aware of his hand tightening around Guildenstern's, of the shortness of his breath. His senses were confused by the intensity of stimuli being poured upon him.
"It's marvelous, isn't it?" the thick voice sounded again, somehow closer this time. "It's almost addicting. But all I need to do is call upon it, and it is there, just beneath the surface. Someday you, too, shall experience it as I have."
Two gentle fingertips pressed against the side of Grissom's neck, tracing the line of his veins--that simple contact sent his heart leaping into his throat, so that he nearly choked on it. His body shook like a frightened child huddled in the warm arms of a caring mother. Was this what he'd sought all along, this fierce exhilaration? He felt as if each of his limbs were charged with pure light, and yet detached from the rest of him; as if he were part of the sun drifting over the horizon.
Too soon Guildenstern began to withdraw, his power ebbing tide-like into his weary body. When Grissom became aware of this slow retreat his own spirit seemed to lament, reaching back to him. It was not enough--surely his captain had more to show him. He was full of energy now, with more strength and confidence than he ever remembered, and was loathe to allow that perfect adrenaline to escape him. He was already addicted. Dear bright God, how did I ever feel pride until now? I have been a child, ignorant and foolish. But this--this power--
The incident had passed--Guildenstern's power had faded, leaving only the cold stale air that still reeked of blood. Grissom's senses returned gradually to their proper order. His skin was first to regain itself, drawn into strict reality by the feel of warm cloth beneath his hands and forehead. The scent of blood, sweat, and a unique, dull fragrance mixed in his nostrils. He smells like...the old spice cabinet. Like cloves and old ginger. What a strange thought that was, but it lingered in the back of his mind, same as the aroma itself.
Slowly it dawned on Grissom that he shouldn't have been close enough to know what his captain smelled like. With a jolt his senses focused once more. Guildenstern was no longer seated in the old armchair, but kneeling just before him. They were so close that Grissom's palms and face were pressed against his chest; he moved slightly with each intake of the man's breath. When did I...what is going on? His body had acted without him, following the withdrawal of Guildenstern's power back to its source, searching for it. And now that he was here he had no idea what action to take, made immobile by his own shame and confusion. He dared not even to breathe, trapped there.
"It would seem," Guildenstern murmured thoughtfully, his words drifting across Grissom's temple, "that power is equally alluring to all men."
"Sir, I...." Grissom gulped and started to pull away, but was stopped when a pair of hands closed on his shoulders, holding him in place.
"A moment, if you would, Grissom. I am a bit unsteady at present."
As am I. Grissom shifted, growing anxious from the close quarters they shared. It was embarrassing enough that his insides were twisting, wanting to feel that power again. But when he paid closer attention he found that Guildenstern was indeed somewhat unstable, leaning heavily on him for support. He must be tired. Exposing all that power for my benefit.... "Sir," he inquired. "Are you all right?"
"Aye. Merely a bit winded." His hands moved down Grissom's shoulders to his upper arms. "Just stay with me a moment more, and I will be all right."
Grissom nodded faintly, unsure if he could have moved had it been required of him. It was almost...satisfying...being depended upon this way. Even something as simple as the warmth of another human body gave him a feeling of peace, after all the filth that had tainted them that night. He could not lie to himself and find their situation not without discomfort--his pride never allowed him to seek this close consolation, especially from another man--but for a moment it did not matter.
Some time had passed before Guildenstern spoke again. "Grissom. Do you...trust me?"
Grissom was caught somewhat off guard by the question, and frowned. "Of course, sir," he answered at once. "You are my captain...my comrade."
"Good. You see, I need someone I can trust, Grissom." His right hand began to move once more, back to his shoulder, sliding across the back of his neck. He stiffened at the unexpected sincerity in that touch. "There are a mere handful of us that can use the Dark--fewer even than I am truly aware of. Sometimes, it's important that I know who I can trust completely in these matters."
"Of course. I understand." Grissom bit at the inside of his lip, his shoulders creeping up as Guildenstern's thumb kneaded gently into the base of his skull. What is this? He tried to pull away but was held fast. "S-Sir?"
"Yes, Grissom?" Guildenstern turned his head until his lips were just beside his temple, so close that the young commander could feel them being twisted with a smile.
This...this is not right. He was on edge now, suddenly aware of the man's every breath and movement. What is he doing? He did not try to pull away, however, still trapped by the memory of his master's power. He could not deny that he wanted that feeling once more--the thrill of having fire at his fingertips, such divine strength. There was no such energy in himself; he stayed, as if drawn to a flame.
Guildenstern hummed a low monotone in his ear, alerting him to the fact that he had lain silent for some time. "Are you all right, Grissom? You are not your proud self."
"Forgive me, sir. I am...preoccupied."
"Of course." His head tilted, with the slightest of movements pressing his lips to the space of flesh beneath Grissom's ear.
At last Grissom found the strength to retreat, breaking out of his hold as he tumbled backwards. He hadn't expected that at all--nor the shiver that coursed down his spine at the contact. Oh God, what was that? He scrambled to his feet and took a step back, recalling his breath. "Sir--Sir Guildenstern," he stuttered ungracefully. "What are you--"
"I'm sorry if I startled you." Guildenstern followed his actions, gathering himself to his full height as he approached. There was an odd gleam in his eyes unlike anything Grissom had seen before--piercing, predatory. He backed away on impulse. "Here now. And you said you trusted me."
"I do, sir," Grissom said, wishing there was greater strength in his voice. He continued to fall back, until he met the stone wall. Damn. "I just didn't expect this...." He forced himself to smile questioningly. "...this interest, sir."
"You've already learned a great deal about me this evening. I doubt a few more surprises will hurt much." Guildenstern stopped just before him, fixing him with that sharpened gaze. Despite all his training Grissom couldn't help but shudder a bit beneath it. He looked like a wolf, gazing at him from within the border of a darkened forest. The captain lifted his hand, ever so faintly tracing the curve of Grissom's jaw; within that touch was contained the memory of their recent experience, and Grissom could not help but welcome it against him. Dear God, when did I become this frail?
"You are loyal, are you not?" Guildenstern moved closer, encouraged by the commander's acceptance. His fingers drifted below Grissom's chin, lifting it slightly.
"Always. To God, to our Order...." He gulped, pressing his back into the cold stone. "I thought you knew that well enough."
Guildenstern laughed, so that his breath spilled like poisoned spiders over the exposed flesh of Grissom's throat. "Of course, of course. But I seek a different loyalty, Grissom. Something deeper." He edged closer, one hand set firmly on either side of his prey. "I am the Order. I am its strength and its life, and you know that. I would that you be loyal to me."
Grissom's sight became unfocused, trapped there between the stone and warm body, struggling to make sense of what was happening. It had been a long time since he'd allowed anyone this close to him, to touch him in this way. After all that his captain had offered him that night, with his trust, his honesty--his very soul--he was prepared to deprive him of nothing. "I am," he replied breathlessly. "You have always had me."
"Good." Again his warm lips found tender skin, and this time Grissom did not attempt to pull away. He stayed, remaining very still, as if waiting for the man's power to invade upon his senses once more. Hoping for it. But there was only a kiss, soft and moist, reminding his weary body of many cold-bedded nights. It rose in him a twisting, mind-numbing anxiety. A moment ago they had been joined in one mind, like a pair of lovers from a fairy tale. Such intimacy he had never known, and was desperate to feel it again.
Guildenstern kissed him again, more deeply, pressing their bodies tight as if he too were seeking some greater satisfaction than this simple affection. Grissom welcomed him closer, wrapping his arms about his shoulders, ignoring his mind's baffled warnings. It was madness, to desire a man this way. To revel in the sensation of his own fluttering heart--to yearn for a taste of perfection once more. But be it folly, Grissom did not care. He could not even bring himself to beg forgiveness for the sins he committed, as he felt no guilt in them. He was only...searching.
"You have always been a good soldier," Guildenstern murmured huskily, smiling against the curve of his neck. His hands grew bold, moving over the folds of Grissom's tunic, massaging the muscles in his chest and torso. "Do you remember that morn in the garden, where you found me?"
"Yes," Grissom breathed, disoriented, biting back any other sounds from borrowing his voice as he shifted beneath those rough hands. They made him tremble, even through the layers of thick leather and cotton. "I remember."
He grinned, continuing his firm caress. "You told me a charming story then, Grissom. Of your...'experience' on the eve of your Ordainment."
"Yes. I remember...."
"Could you tell me again," he whispered into his ear, "what that felt like?"
Grissom licked his lips, finding it difficult to center his mind on any sensible topic at the moment. But the memory his captain sought was a particularly strong one, and he was able to recall that eve with its entire splendor quickly enough. "It was...exhilarating," he said, closing his eyes to better remember. "Like a touch from God. It was...white, and warm, like--"
Grissom fell silent, his eyes snapping wide when he realized what he was about to say. His hands were suddenly numb. No. No, what is he saying? But the words fell from him, barely carried by his breath, shuddering. "...Like when you touched me, just now."
Guildenstern chuckled softly; the sound of it made his stomach twist with nausea. "Yes. Yes, that's right. Just like the touch of the Dark."
"No...." Grissom felt his body sag, his gaze swimming. "No, I won't believe that--"
"The Cardinal is a very intelligent and exacting man, Grissom," the captain went on, never leaving more than inches between his eager lips and his subordinate's ear. "He knows that faith is the most powerful thing a man can have, and he uses that to his advantage. He tests all his Ordained in such a way, to see if they will feel. To bind them to him. As he bound you."
Grissom could not speak for shock. He continued to grip Guildenstern's shoulders, as his legs were weak and unwilling to support him after what he'd been told. For years he had drawn from that brief, inspiring experience. He had told the story with pride and dignity, earning respect from his soldiers, even his friends. His faith was his strength--the strength that had allowed him to pray at the bedside of Lady Wellerune, to accept the Dark as his tool, to use it. To slay ungodly men and send their souls to Heaven. All these things took origin in that one belief, that he was one of God's chosen blades. He was special; he was touched.
"Guildenstern...." He had nothing to say, pale and stricken as he was. He wanted to deny the cruel words even as he saw the truth in them; even as he remembered the imprint of Guildenstern's magick against his heart. My God...my Lord, what does this mean? What has he done to me?
They were moving. Grissom could not bring himself to register this fact, nor the gentle words Guildenstern was spilling into his ear. "There is no need to despair...still have your faith...should know the truth." They faded in and out of his understanding, until his calves knocked the edge of the bed. He stumbled a bit, and sat down awkwardly. He lifted his gaze. "Guildenstern...Captain...?"
"It's all right, Grissom," the knight assured him, seating himself beside him and gently easing him back. "There's no need to be upset. I did not tell you these things so that you would regret them."
"I know." Grissom allowed himself to be prodded, settling against the stiff mattress. It doesn't matter what he does to me. I don't care. Everything seemed to be happening so quickly around him, and he welcomed it, trying to forget what he had just learned. Later...when he had calmed, had come to understand this reality better...he would accept or question. Presently he was too distraught and confused to want to argue, made sick by the stench of blood on his garments. If I was not chosen, what right did I have to kill those people? Women and children....
Guildenstern settled his weight over the young soldier, returning his attention to the soft taste of his throat, working his hands beneath the stained tunic. "Do you want me to stop?" he asked quietly, though the tone of his voice indicated he had no intentions of doing as such.
"No," Grissom answered, turning his head to allow the man's mouth more freedom. "Whatever...lies I have believed, I am still yours, am I not? I am loyal to you. I trust you."
"With your life?" He began to slip the stiff layers of fabric over Grissom's head, which he encouraged, and tossed the garment aside carelessly. His hands sought out taunt flesh, the subtle indents of ribs, the hollow just above his hips. They were warm, and strong, and stole away Grissom's every desire to contemplate what was happening. For a moment he was alerted to a touch of metal against his bare chest--his silver rood, lying heavily over his heart. With a flash of childish retaliation he snatched the pendant and ripped it from his neck, snapping the chain as he flung it thoughtlessly to the other side of the room.
He then returned his gaze to Guildenstern, his eyes hardened and sure. "With my life." If I do not have God's favor, then let me have his. Grissom pulled Guildenstern down to him. "With all that I am--my very soul, should you have need of it."
Guildenstern regarded him silently a moment, surprised by his commander's sudden change of demeanor, but quickly accepting. "Your very soul," he repeated, quirking an eyebrow. His eyes began to gleam anew, and a cold smirk marred his handsome features. "Are you sure?"
There was danger in the tone of his silk voice, though Grissom was in no mood to heed the warning. He nodded, wanting nothing more than to hide beneath this man, his liquid hands and fiery mouth; to lose himself in whatever sin he could, as he felt betrayed and lost. "Yes. You have my word."
"Good." Guildenstern took hold of his wrists suddenly, pinning them to the bed with strength he should not have had after so eventful a night. The kiss placed upon Grissom's throat was hot and hungry. Grissom wriggled, unexpecting of such a forceful advance, though a moment later he had forgotten his qualms. He arched into that contact, sighing quietly. And as he'd hoped Guildenstern opened himself once more, granting Grissom the flavor of his fiery spirit, lifting his voice in a soft moan.
It started so gradually, so carefully, that Grissom did not notice at first that his limbs were growing stiff and immobile. He was too caught up in the mixing of their power, and brushed his fatigue off easily as merely being a fault of the late hour. But when his fingertips numbed he caught his breath, frowning up at the ceiling. His toes shared a similar feeling, and it was creeping up into his ankles. What the hell? "Guildenstern...?"
"You said you would offer me your very soul," Guildenstern whispered harshly against his ear. His voice tore at him coldly, not unlike the tip of his rapier. "I intend to make full use of your offer."
The cold rose swiftly up through Grissom's legs, as if his blood were being leeched from him. He tried to thrash, panic getting the better of him, but by then it was too late--Guildenstern's grip on him was by now too powerful. No--the captain could never have been this strong. Something was seeping into the young officer, pulling at the little power he had been able to gather for himself through the past weeks of training. He tried to bind it in--this was his precious strength that he had fought hard to obtain, and yet it left him as easily as he had thrown the rood away a moment before. Guildenstern was stealing his very essence from him.
But worse than the terrifying feeling of being extracted, drained, was the even stronger feel of their energies still entwined. Grissom could feel his spirit curling inside the captain, swirling like aged wine, and the lifting of pleasure at the sensation of being filled. Or perhaps it was his own pleasure, which frightened him all the more. He struggled against Guildenstern's hold, though he was quickly losing the feeling in his arms as well. "This...Guildenstern, you...."
"Fear not, young Grissom," Guildenstern soothed between tender kisses to his forehead, eyelids, and cheeks. "Hush now, and dream your peaceful dreams. Do not be afraid."
"Damn you...." A sound of pain was choked from Grissom's throat, caught between a sob of frustration and an enraptured moan. Damn him, damn him! In desperation he turned his pleas toward the Heavens, grieving how foolishly he had condemned his Lord a few short minutes ago. God, dear God, what is he doing to me? I beg you, mercy....
The darkness rose up around him, thick and black, smothering his dulled and writhing senses. Guildenstern was all about him--the pressure of his body, the warmth of his mouth, the scent of cloves and old ginger all pressed into him, weakening his resolve. God, please....
And a voice, echoing softly against his straining ears in a sweet lullaby, as if coaxing his shattered senses into the deepest sleep he had ever known.
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