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“I had an idea for something we could do tonight. Come see?”
I’d lit a few votive candles in our room, and spread a sheet over the blankets on the bed. I put on some soft music. Gregorian chants, you might think, if you didn’t know Latin. These were in praise of Lucifer, though the style was the same.
He looked over my preparations with a small smile, and raised an eyebrow.
I showed him my tools, laid out on the endtable.
“I have a brand new calligraphy brush, and homemade, washable ink. How would you like to be covered in poetry?”
He laughed, and ran a hand gently over my hair.
“Like in The Pillow Book? All right, dolce.” He shook his head. “I don’t think anyone’s wanted to do that to me before….”
“You weren’t dating a nerd from the scriptorium before.”
He grinned. “You have a point.”
I watched him undress. He slid out of his clothes slowly, teasingly–he never could resist playing up to an audience. Then he got into bed, rolled onto his side facing me, and ran a hand affectedly through his hair.
“Paint me like one of your French girls!”
“Dork.”
He snickered, and finally rolled onto his back.
He was pale, nearly hairless, and very slender. There was something fey about him; he looked almost delicate, though he was anything but. The men of the Bloodline were demon-sired and very strong, and he was no exception. Still, he looked ethereal, stretched out in the dimly-lit room, green and white eyes half-lidded as he relaxed and waited for me to begin.
This beautiful man–my high priest, my lover, my heart’s safe harbor–was everything to me.
To all the rest of the clergy and lay faithful, he was Papa. But for me, he was Terzo, my beloved Three.
I sat next to him on the bed, and slowly began to write. As I completed the lines, I read them to him.
My love is no short year’s sentence.
It is a grief lodged under the skin,
Strength pushed beyond its bounds;
The four quarters of the world,
The highest point of heaven.
It was an old Irish love poem, and I read it to him in the original language, with all its strange music.
“How do you feel, my love?”
“It’s a little like being stroked with a feather…or a feather-light touch….”
“Oh, you mean like this?”
His breath caught, and he laughed a little. “Yes. Just like that.”
He leaned into my touch, lifting his hips off the bed. I stroked him gently for a moment more, and then stopped.
He let out a soft whine. “Patience. I’m not done with you yet.”
I finished writing across his arms, down his chest and thighs.
It is
A heart breaking or
Battle with a ghost,
Striving under water,
Outrunning the sky or
Courting an echo.
I gestured to him to roll over, and he lay on his front, head pillowed on his arms.
I gave him a quick smack on the ass, and he yelped. “What was that for?”
“You’re too cute. I couldn’t resist.”
He looked over his shoulder at me and winked.
I covered him with words, a work of literature on a work of art.
So is my love, my passion
and my devotion
To him to whom I give them.
At last it was done. I removed my habit and lay down beside him.
He stretched, and turned to face me. “Would you like to take a shower together?”
“Well, we could do that….”
“Or?”
“I told you the ink was homemade?”
“Yes….”
“.…it’s edible.”
His eyes lit up, and his voice dropped to a low growl.
“Now you’re talking!”