Connections
Part 6 - Endgame
Ian laid watching Sara sleep. It was still so unreal to him that he had won, that they were together. He was free, his life had changed, and he had Sara. She lay snuggled against him naked, her skin soft against his. He shifted slightly just to feel the delicious friction as she slid against him, snuggling closer in sleep to find the most comfortable position. He could not seem to get enough of that feeling. After so much isolation it was unbelievable to him, all of it. He had never felt so sensitive as if every move, every sound made a deep impression on his soul. She was so hard on the outside, but inside she was so soft, so gentle. She gave him hope, now he needed to be strong for her. He wished now that he could be more like his father. Yet again he wished he had the smooth confidence bordering on arrogance that had always characterized Kenneth Irons. He would be able to stand up and make things happen in a way that his usual techniques could not. The thoughts were making him restless and he was afraid he would wake Sara, that she would see the uncertainty in him that he was trying so hard to hide.
Ian slipped slowly from beneath her and out of the bed. Sara stirred a little in her sleep and reached for him. He bent over and gave her a gentle kiss before putting on his robe and reaching to remove something from the nightstand and putting it in his pocket, moving slowly out the door. He went down the hall and up the stairs, stopping before the double doors that led to his father's rooms. He stood there gazing at the doors for some time. The rooms had been empty since his father's death; he had locked the doors himself not even allowing anyone inside to clean. Ian removed the key from his pocket and slowly unlocked the door, taking a deep breath and opening it.
The sitting room was dark and stuffy, the smell of cold ashes mingling with the stale scent of his father's cologne. It was dark and he started to turn on the light, but changed his mind and knelt by the cold hearth and began to build a fire, remembering times past, when he had knelt in this same spot, listening to his father talk, or receiving orders, even taking his punishment on the rare occasions when such a thing was warranted. He knew Sara would not understand, not yet. They were too new to each other, even with lifetimes behind them. He held the fire starter, watching as the kindling caught slowly, mesmerized. It was one of the few times that the fire had ever been out. His father kept it burning all year long no matter what the weather. Irons was always cold. It had given the room the constant feel of winter, especially since he had never allowed the curtains opened, except at night. Sometimes in the dark he would open the drapes, even the windows and allow the night inside.
Pictures flashed in his mind, his father's voice, words of comfort on a night when everything was a swirl of pain and confusion, the feel of his father's hand against his cheek, so very different from Sara's touch, the only other touch he knew. The room began to warm up and he rose slowly and sat down in the other chair, not quite ready to sit in his father's seat. It was not the first time he had sat here, he remembered the first time he had sat in this chair. He was six, and he had been told that he was too old to sit in his father's lap anymore. He was becoming a man and should carry himself as such. He was told of his responsibilities, to Irons, to his destiny, and it was the point that all the stories became true. He remembered other times here, standing in the corner being grilled on his lessons, on the will and the philosophies that guided his life. Sitting in this spot when he had been told he was being sent away to school, or to the military. Somehow his father always wanted him here during those major decisions, as if he wanted to have him close at those times. He knew that Irons had chosen it as his only way to show his love. Ian knew that many saw his father as cold, calculating even. The staff had never even completely understood, and they had known him longer than most. Kenneth Irons had expected his son to be what he could not, strong, emotionless, free of pain and guilt. He knew now that such was an impossible dream. How he could be everything that his father wanted when so much of it conflicted, dreams and desires merged from a long life filled with conflict.
Ian looked at Iron's chair; he could almost see him there, glass in hand, talking, telling stories, giving him his lessons. The voice from memory was strong, even gentle at times.
"What is it that you seek, my son?" He looked up startled. Kenneth Irons sat in his chair, a half smile on his face.
Part 6 - Endgame
Ian laid watching Sara sleep. It was still so unreal to him that he had won, that they were together. He was free, his life had changed, and he had Sara. She lay snuggled against him naked, her skin soft against his. He shifted slightly just to feel the delicious friction as she slid against him, snuggling closer in sleep to find the most comfortable position. He could not seem to get enough of that feeling. After so much isolation it was unbelievable to him, all of it. He had never felt so sensitive as if every move, every sound made a deep impression on his soul. She was so hard on the outside, but inside she was so soft, so gentle. She gave him hope, now he needed to be strong for her. He wished now that he could be more like his father. Yet again he wished he had the smooth confidence bordering on arrogance that had always characterized Kenneth Irons. He would be able to stand up and make things happen in a way that his usual techniques could not. The thoughts were making him restless and he was afraid he would wake Sara, that she would see the uncertainty in him that he was trying so hard to hide.
Ian slipped slowly from beneath her and out of the bed. Sara stirred a little in her sleep and reached for him. He bent over and gave her a gentle kiss before putting on his robe and reaching to remove something from the nightstand and putting it in his pocket, moving slowly out the door. He went down the hall and up the stairs, stopping before the double doors that led to his father's rooms. He stood there gazing at the doors for some time. The rooms had been empty since his father's death; he had locked the doors himself not even allowing anyone inside to clean. Ian removed the key from his pocket and slowly unlocked the door, taking a deep breath and opening it.
The sitting room was dark and stuffy, the smell of cold ashes mingling with the stale scent of his father's cologne. It was dark and he started to turn on the light, but changed his mind and knelt by the cold hearth and began to build a fire, remembering times past, when he had knelt in this same spot, listening to his father talk, or receiving orders, even taking his punishment on the rare occasions when such a thing was warranted. He knew Sara would not understand, not yet. They were too new to each other, even with lifetimes behind them. He held the fire starter, watching as the kindling caught slowly, mesmerized. It was one of the few times that the fire had ever been out. His father kept it burning all year long no matter what the weather. Irons was always cold. It had given the room the constant feel of winter, especially since he had never allowed the curtains opened, except at night. Sometimes in the dark he would open the drapes, even the windows and allow the night inside.
Pictures flashed in his mind, his father's voice, words of comfort on a night when everything was a swirl of pain and confusion, the feel of his father's hand against his cheek, so very different from Sara's touch, the only other touch he knew. The room began to warm up and he rose slowly and sat down in the other chair, not quite ready to sit in his father's seat. It was not the first time he had sat here, he remembered the first time he had sat in this chair. He was six, and he had been told that he was too old to sit in his father's lap anymore. He was becoming a man and should carry himself as such. He was told of his responsibilities, to Irons, to his destiny, and it was the point that all the stories became true. He remembered other times here, standing in the corner being grilled on his lessons, on the will and the philosophies that guided his life. Sitting in this spot when he had been told he was being sent away to school, or to the military. Somehow his father always wanted him here during those major decisions, as if he wanted to have him close at those times. He knew that Irons had chosen it as his only way to show his love. Ian knew that many saw his father as cold, calculating even. The staff had never even completely understood, and they had known him longer than most. Kenneth Irons had expected his son to be what he could not, strong, emotionless, free of pain and guilt. He knew now that such was an impossible dream. How he could be everything that his father wanted when so much of it conflicted, dreams and desires merged from a long life filled with conflict.
Ian looked at Iron's chair; he could almost see him there, glass in hand, talking, telling stories, giving him his lessons. The voice from memory was strong, even gentle at times.
"What is it that you seek, my son?" He looked up startled. Kenneth Irons sat in his chair, a half smile on his face.