Colin Bridgerton, on his second tour, is still looking for something. He's just not sure what. Off on another adventure, he looks for a temple to the greek gods of dreams, the Oneiroi. Morpheus gifts him with something he prays for - the truth of what he is missing - past, present and future.
P.S. Unbetaed - sorry!
Prayers to the Oneiroi
The Oneiroi are divine dreams - the dreams sent by the gods themselves. Called Somnia in Latin, they are often represented in human form as Morpheus by the Romans. But in Greek tradition - they are not individually named. But however conceived of, the Oneiroi have the power to change lives.
Colin Bridgerton looked out at the dark waves reflecting the sliver of moon in the churning waves beneath his perch on the rocky cliff. The weather was unsettled for August - and he knew from experience that there would be a thunderstorm within hours - and then he would be trapped in the small room he'd taken in Taormina until the winds died down.
There was no better time to try. It was silly - juvenile even - like a boy fulfilling a dare from a classmate, but once he'd heard of this shrine to the Oracle of the Oneiroi in Naxos - he had to see it for himself.
He'd followed his love of ancient Greek culture to Sicily this time, after he'd explored the wonders of Rome and Naples. He'd had to manage in his increasingly fluent Italian, and now Sicilian, to make his own arrangements for lodgings and whatnot - there were few Englishmen who set foot in Sicily past Palermo.
But instead of cavorting with falsely cheerful barmaids and the other wealthy young bucks from a dozen countries he'd encountered in Palermo taverns, he'd chosen to share a very good bottle of grappa with an eccentric German professor. Herr Schmidt claimed there was a magnificent temple to be seen in Naxos - you just had to scramble a bit down a steep trail to a tiny beach, and in a cave there was a wonder of ancient beauty and craftsmanship.
Colin loved beauty, perhaps even more than his brother Benedict. His definition was just broader. The beauty in food, the beauty in good conversation, the beauty in ancient history, the beauty in the sweet smile on a blushing woman - no, don't think of her. Not now. He was trying very hard not to think of her, not to worry about her.
He hadn't heard from Pen in weeks. He was here to enjoy himself and escape the doldrums of London life, not worry incessantly about his best friend. She was smart, she was sweet, she was just fine. Or surely his mother would have mentioned something.
Taking in a deep breath and vowing to stay focused on the current adventure, he placed each foot carefully on the treacherous path that a fisherman had pointed out to him - he truly hoped he'd fully understood the stream of Sicilian that the old man had cheerfully offered. He really should have done this during the day - but the professor had insisted it had to be at night. If you were going to visit a temple to the gods of dreams - it better be during the time their power was at its height.
He stopped to move the shades on his lantern to focus their light on the uneven ground at his feet, and he made his way carefully down the steep, rocky cliff. At the beach, he looked out at the unsettled ocean, and then turned around, facing the hollowed out cliff behind him and the enormous dark door that seemed in the moonlight to be the entrance to the throat of a giant sea creature ready to engulf him. But he was not that easily frightened. He stepped forward eagerly, his lantern swinging with the vigor of his steps up the beach and into the unknown.
Inside the entrance, it was not pitch dark. In the areas where his focused lantern did not illuminate, the walls glowed softly - some kind of moss or some kind of magic, he wasn't sure. But an eerie green light filled the air and there was a hush here - not even the sound of the waves outside on the beach seemed to break the serenity of this cave. He was hesitant to fully uncover his lantern - still pointing it's light at the ground alone, but his curiosity won out, and he moved up the shades on the side of the modified ship's lamp the fisherman had rented to him - he was sure for far too much he was happy to pay the price for it when its light filled the space - revealing a cavern, neither large nor small, too warm or too cold. There was a strange intimacy, different from any of the temple ruins he'd visited in Greece or Italy. Over everything hovered an expectant silence, the whisper of something within the cave almost like a sigh, or the breathing of a sleeper.
There were many statues around the edges of the cave, in hollowed out nooks, each lovingly carved - if clearly not by expert craftsman. Colin walked and examined what were clearly devotional carvings, done out of reverence, not for mere money. There were representations of beautiful maidens and horrifying beasts, crying fathers and hopeful young men, hardened warriors and wistful weavers. Every facet of dream or nightmare was here in some form it seemed. There was no one central figure, as in most temples, merely an altar in the center of the room - and that expectant silence.
Usually at a temple life this, Colin would appreciate all the art, walk around and wonder at the ancient, untouched past, and then leave to write of it in his journals and cherish it in his memories. But here - he was moved for more. Here he felt a presence, something holy. Something undeniable that spoke to his soul, spoke to the part of him that yearned.
He set down his lantern, stepping toward the altar and then stopping, suddenly searching all his pockets for something, anything, to offer as a gift. One couldn't pray at an ancient temple without an offering, could they. He wished he'd thought of that before!
After frantically going through every pocket of his trousers and his coat, in the very last pocket, the one closest to his heart, he found a stub of black wax crayon - something he used to jot down notes when he couldn't be bothered to fetch a quill and ink. It was all he had, short of the coins in his purse. So on the altar he left a few coins - though he didn't think the gods would be impressed (the fisherman might be!), and the stub of crayon, something a bit more personal.
He was a Christian, and it didn't feel right to kneel. Instead he sat in the dirt, uncaring of the state of his trousers, and stared up at all of the small statues that seemed to move in the flickering light of his lantern. But he felt strangely compelled to pray. He felt so lost lately. He loved to travel, loved his adventures, loved finding the next interesting place or person or pastry to get to know. But it was as though he couldn't find satisfaction anymore. Instead, he was worried about home, worried about something. Afraid he was missing something very important, and no matter how far away he searched, he would never ever find it.
"Hello?" His voice echoed softly in the cavern, breaking the spell of silence. He felt foolish, and just a bit sacrilegious. But, in for a penny, in for a pound.
"I don't always remember my dreams. But sometimes they've been very helpful. Thank you for that." Really, he was being silly.
"I was wondering though….I'm looking…I….I feel like I'm missing something. Like there is some connection I'm not making. And I'm worried that if I don't figure it out soon, it will be too late. Benedict talks about how he sometimes comes up with answers in his dreams. Even Mama has said that occasionally, and she always has the best advice….." He let out a long breath. "So, Oneiroi, I ask for your help. I…I need to see the truth that I'm missing, the thing I need to find. Otherwise I fear I will go mad."
There was nothing that replied but that same echoing silence. He felt even more foolish, but at least he had tried. He needed to do something, or he was never going to sleep well again. He kept staring up at the ceiling in inns across the Continent, unable to rest for the thought that there was something he had forgotten or needed to find, like an itch he couldn't scratch.
He wasn't quite sure when the shadows seemed to grow, and the lantern seemed to flicker more, when a wind moved through the cave, spinning the sand on the cave floor in spirals. He was taken by surprise when the wind suddenly grew to a howl, and the sand rose up, slamming into him with the force of a punch, and the sand spattered into his face, into his nose and his eyes, making him blink harshly and grunt in pain. A moment later, all he knew was blackness.
He was walking through the familiar pathway of a garden, familiar voices of a ball or soiree rumbling around him, but he could pay no attention. His heart was beating hard, his chest hurt, like he had been given the most distressing news, or that he'd lost something precious. He was a mix of anger and sadness and loneliness, such loneliness, even amongst so many people. He was almost to the door, almost to where he could escape somewhere to hide, when he heard a group of men erupt from a doorway, chattering in that tipsy way young men will use to boast when just deep enough in their cups that bravado is at its strongest.
He turned to look at them, a plant concealing him from view, but he could see them well enough. Well enough to see himself. And he should be shocked, he should be horrified, but instead he was happy - a shot of warmth spread through his chest, chasing away the bitter sorrow and anger that had consumed him a moment ago.
He heard Reggie Fife rasp in a drunken voice, "Saw the way you were dancing with that Featherington girl, Bridgerton. It was interesting. Are you courting the girl then?"
And then he heard himself use words he could barely remember.
"I would never dream of courting Penelope Featherington. Not in your wildest fantasies!"
The pain was all consuming. The sharp, butter sting of betrayal, the loss of hope, the emptiness of despair fell all at once on top of what had already been a pile of misery and rage and it was too much, his heart hurt as though he had been stabbed with a saber. He ran inside, hand to his chest, and stumbled in the hallway, catching himself of a table and looking up into a decorative oval mirror.
And in the mirror, the tear stained face he saw was not his own, that of Colin Bridgerton, but that of Penelope Featherington, someone whom he'd called his best friend.
He'd broken her heart.
A voice, a rich baritone full of amusement, whispered, "A missing truth of your past."
Sand swirled up from the formerly clean marble floor to strike him again, dragging him once more into blackness.
The pen flew across the page, the words bubbling through his mind at a rapid pace.
Dearest Gentle Readers
Maids and footmen around Mayfair are kept busy removing dust covers and shining silver as families return from pastoral pleasures into the waiting arms of London and the thrill of the Season, and I assure you all that I have been watching and waiting to share with you the on dits that could not stay safely in the country.
After a thrilling and eventful Ball to close the Season, Lady Featherington has ascended in triumph with another daughter well married as the new Mrs. Harold Dankworth, and is once more in control of the household as the upstart scoundrel Lord Featherington has fled to parts unknown. Even more interesting, the still unwed littlest feather in her cap has been rumored to be determined to fly the coop this year and find a nest of her own. Will she fly, fall, or remain a wallflower as seemed so sure just a Season ago, or will a noble gentleman come to rescue our overripe citrus and pick that fruit?
He stopped, staring at the words in front of him, and then at the hand that had written them. Small, delicate fingers with smooth skin covered with ink stains. He looked then at the handwriting - much neater and tighter than his own. More controlled. And almost more familiar. Pen's handwriting. He turned his head, looking toward a dressing table to his left, and into a small mirror. And there, looking back at him with tired eyes, was once again Penelope Feathington.
Penelope Featherington, his Pen, was Lady Whistledown.
Denial rose, and then rage, followed by confusion. How could she do this? Why would she do this? Eloise….Lady Crane….she'd ruined…..
She'd saved him. Saved him from his own naive stupidity. He would have married Marina to rescue her, and been miserable, just like Philip Crane.
And Daphne…she'd saved Daphne from Berbrooke. She'd done….
She'd done so much. She was astonishing.
Once again, the deep voice purred in his ear, "A missing truth of your present."
And the sand came, and he fell away.
He heard the moans first. His eyes seemed glued shut, he was clenching them so tightly. He heard the voice of a woman, high but throaty, abandoned to pleasure in soft pants and moans. Not the fake moans he'd heard the time or two he'd visited a brothel and tried, and failed, to find any pleasure there. But something he knew was real. The sound of a woman being well pleased.
He smelled the scents next. The smell of clean sweat and the musk of sex, the sweet floral notes of orange blossom that brought sweet memories to the edge of his consciousness, but he could not concentrate.
Not when he was overwhelmed by touch. The feel of strands of silky hair brushing against his naked shoulder. The soft pliancy of warm skin of firm globe he held in one palm, the hardness of what he knew was a nipple cupped against his palm. The crinkle of tight curls against his wrist and the slick hot wetness of heaven against his fingers as he moved them inside of a woman. The press of a firm arse against his thighs and the curve of a back against his rock hard cock.
He was curled over a woman, filled with desire more potent than he could have ever imagined. None of his sorry attempts at pleasure with painted courtesans had ever led to much, despite what he'd told his brothers and gossiped about with other blokes. They were empty, uncomfortable. But this, this was addictive, sublime. Who?
He opened his eyes and was looking over a soft white shoulder and into a full length mirror. The glow of firelight illuminated a body that would rival Aphrodite herself. Rosy skin - full, perfect breasts, the curve of her hips was divinity incarnate. And her hair, a riot of copper that glowed in the firelight as though she wore a crown of living fire.
Penelope.
How could he have ever not seen this. Ever not seen what incredible beauty she possessed? How could he have dismissed her a merely a friend over and over again.
She moaned again and he moved his fingers faster, pressing within her in some magic dance that this body knew, even if his mind was still mostly green. She gasped, one hand moving up to grip at his hand cupping her incredible breast, and the other moving to grip and his arse, pulling him forward and pressing his cock even more fully against her smooth skin.
"Inside! Now! I can't take anymore!" she practically growled, and without understanding how he unerringly knew what to do, he pulled his hands from her cunt and his breast, and placed one at her hip and the other against her back, bending her forward and pushing her down as they both knelt on the thick carpet before the mirror.
He stared down at the perfect curve of her arse as she bent herself with practiced ease, tipping her pelvis to present the lips of her sex with greedy eagerness. He took his cock in his hand and before he could think twice, he was surging into her, deep and hard, and she screamed, "Yes!" loud enough that his ears rang with it.
She was salvation. Hot and wet and slick and tight, so damn tight. His hips began to move without his will, pumping against hers as he stared down, enraptured by the site of his cock entering his Pen and withdrawing, her cunt grasping at him as he left and welcoming him with each new thrust.
The pleasure was beyond comprehension, sweet fire on his nerves, the threat of a lightning strike in the air at any moment.
The wet slap of skin and the sound of her keening and his own grunts was a symphony he could hear a thousand thousand times. This was….
Oh God. Ice struck him. Was this even him? Was he the one enjoying his wife? Or was he merely inhabiting the body of someone else - the man lucky enough to be the lover of this Goddess? The fear was so visceral, he felt like his heart had been stolen from his chest, that he would never feel happiness again.
It was the scariest task of his life to look up and into the mirror once again. This time to confirm the identity of the body who was currently buried balls deep in his Pen. He didn't think he was brave enough. Without his will, his hand snuck around her hip and pressed against the hard nub of flesh at the top of her cunt and she screamed, bright and happy.
"Colin!"
His eyes snapped up, and there in the mirror, her face beyond beautiful in its ecstasy, was Penelope. Over her bright hair he could see his own green eyes staring back at himself as he drove his own cock into the spasming cunt of the woman he loved.
The lightning struck and pleasure raced up his spine, whiting out his vision as he spurted into his wife with relief and hope and pure happiness and purpose filling his soul.
He loved her. He loved this woman more than words could ever express.
And once more, as he lost consciousness to bliss, he heard a voice. "And the missing truth of your future, should you act accordingly."
Colin Bridgerton woke in his uncomfortable bed in the room he'd rented in Naxos, his eyes snapping open and his hands feeling around the bed uselessly, trying in vain to find the body of his wife.
But there was no one else in the chill of the morning, only himself and too many thoughts.
He sat up and looked around the small room - seeing his open travel case on the small table and a chipped pitcher of water next to it, the light of dawn peaking through the hazy window beyond the end of the bed.
Had it all just been a dream?
The whole night? The temple…the garden…. Whistledown…..wife…..
He looked down at himself and he sighed in relief - he was still wearing his clothes from the night before, complete with the dirt of the cave floor. He rubbed the sand from his eyes as he glanced around, seeing the fisherman's lantern on the floor. He patted his pocket, looking for any more proof, and withdrew a black wax crayon. A brand new one, untouched. Not at all the stub he'd left on the altar. He exhaled in wonder.
"Thank you, Oneiroi. I shall never forget you."
He sprang to his feet, furiously packing his belongings back into his traveling case, and wondering how fast he could make it back to Palermo and if he could find a ship for England within the next day.
His wife thought he didn't want her. His wife, Lady Whistledown herself, wanted to find a husband this Season. A Season that he'd not been sure he wanted to return for.
There was no way he was letting his wife marry another man!