Gah, I feel a little queasy.

Warning: this is written for the Sick F--- Fictions competition. Rated R for incest.

All right now

By ElspethElf

It was not the first time she was out of bed so early in the morning, when palace servants were still deep in their dreams of grey clothes and dusting routines. Nor was it unusual for her ghostly footsteps to cross the empty hall by the pale, silent light of her crystal globe.

She was careful to walk barefooted so that the faint patter of feet against stone was barely the whispers of an early dawn. It did not take long for her feet to grow cold, yet she ignored the chilly touch, knowing all too well that they will soon warm up.

Up the stairs she climbed until she halted, soundlessly, at the very top. She turned her head to one side, peering under her lashes long enough to see the glow of light that seeped through the gap beneath the door. She expected that.

Sliding the crystal into her nightdress, she rubbed her hands together, bringing her lips to the tips of her icy fingers. She closed her eyes momentarily, drawing out the turbulent edginess that made her slender body tremble. She stood very still for some time, and only reached for the door when every fibre of her body calmed.

She was expected.

Quietly she entered, slipping through the door with the hem of her nightdress floating behind like wisps of a curling smoke. Silently, irresistibly, she walked on towards the table to receive the reward of his stern and kind eyes.

Nights ago she would have made a fuss, would have attempted to scold and nag at his unhealthy, late-night habits. Now she doesn't bother. Not, at least, with words.

She placed a hand on his arm, and felt him reach forwards to lift her onto his knees. He settled her there and his hands, shaking, began to move. She loved that; the almost fatherly way he held her against him, the slow, sensual stroke of her hair. It reminded her of old comforts and bedtime stories.

'Uncle.'

She rested her head against his chest, pressing her face into his brown cotton shirt. She saw the deep folds of wrinkles that curved and dipped within the material, and her hand reached to stroke it very gently, very slowly.

Threads stretched smooth under her touch, and the cloth moved to lie even. Her hand was soft, and each caress brought the thudding of his heart faster and louder.

How strong his heart is, she thought to herself, satisfied. She remembered the frail, uneven beat of his pulse when he lay abed for almost a month after his heart attack. She remembered her fear, those sharp knives of pain that jabbed her skin at the thought of loosing him.

She knew he needed help as much as she knew he was lonely. The palace was too hollow a place for him to live in, the people too in awe of him to know him. She knew him, knew and understood his yearnings. And she loved him, and her intense urgency to take care of him was too powerful to bear.

Her heart ached with the need to tell him, show him how he was not to over-exhaust himself. He wasn't young anymore, and she saw vulnerability in his tired eyes every time she touched his face. And more pressingly, she wished she could express the enormity of her obligation towards him.

In the end she did, and she did believe that her kisses and touches brought life to his body and rekindled the fire in his heart.

'Sandry… Sandry, my dear…'

He sighed into her hair, his hands already stroking her back. In a touch so loving and tender, his palms caressed along her legs and stopped at her feet.

'They are so cold,' he whispered, and rubbed his thumb against the sole of her foot, revolving around and around until heat surged through her.

She tilted her face and closed her mouth over his, soft, reassuring and comforting. A swell of pride leapt into her chest as she felt him stir at the sweetness of her lips. She knew his heart was pounding, knew, and felt the blood run through him hard and fast.

With a contented sigh, she guided his hands beneath her nightdress.

I'm taking care of him, she thought, pleased. He'll be all right now.