Magician by K.L. Noone
Chapter 15
Lorre slept, or half-slept, most of the night and half of the following day. He hadn’t meant to, and he was surprised about it.
He lay curled into Gareth’s bed, languid, drifting in and out. Gareth had lit the fire, or someone had; heat kept the room snug and cozy, and thick blankets lay over him with affirming homespun weight, and Gareth sat with him, beside him, not leaving him.
Lorre, protected amid pillows, felt the mattress beneath him and the weave of welcoming bedclothes and his own velvet robe against his skin. He was aware of the leap of flames, and the steam of a teacup; he heard the rustle as Gareth turned the page of a book, and the low even rumble of Gareth’s voice, reading to him or talking to him or quietly speaking to other people. Dan came by, and the queen mother, and the young priest Matthias, who took Gareth’s hands for a moment and then hugged him.
Dan came back with tea, a king balancing scones and a pot and sandwiches, and later brought up slices of carrot cake, possibly the award-winning recipe. Gareth managed a smile when his brother clasped his shoulder, and leaned into Dan’s touch for a moment, accepting comfort.
Gareth was worried, a low-level constant thrum of bronze-petaled concern, though not as worried as he might’ve been. Lorre had been awake enough earlier to yawn and pick at a raspberry cream puff and sip some sweet hot tea; he wasn’t hurt, only tired and oddly diffuse, spread out, thin tattered fringes of rainbows splayed out along his edges. He’d taken Gareth’s hand, holding on.
Languorous, secure, he let his perceptions flow outward. Let himself wander, being carried, merging with the deep profound songs of stars and rocks and seas and the spin of the world.
He could hear the clamor of the river behind the hall, plummeting and hurtling over stones, salmon leaping further downstream, a fisherman wading into his currents. He became the dark heavy solace of mountains untouched by any human hands, and the sudden wild burst of thunder and lightning above, illumination that swept through his veins.
He listened to the indistinct songs and hums and movements of people, up here in King’s Gate and spread out in mountain villages and down south in Averene and Penth and west to Whiskey Harbor and the fishing-fleet and merchant ships out in the ocean. He knew that if he tried he could reach further or focus down, narrowing in.
He did not need to. He let them be, myriad colorful notes in a symphony, going about their business unobserved. He was only one of them: not any brighter or wiser, for all that he might be able to see more.
He knew each magician in the Middle Lands. Not personally, not anymore, but he could sense them. The flare of the newly reformed magicians’ school glowed strong and multifaceted, blazing with power, a gemstone set in a lush capital city. A few more sparks, not many, moved about the world: flickers of earth-sense, illusion-magic, an affinity for green growing life. There’d never been a large number of magicians, and fewer after over a century of Church condemnation; but there were more, he thought, than there’d been. Something else healing, perhaps. Or growing anew.
One of the brightest lapidary fragments was on the way North. He’d deal with that too, soon enough.
The tangle of ice and pain and his own watching power remained, up in a mountain pass. He paid some attention to that one, and smiled a little, and made a note to tell Gareth a few things, momentarily.
He lost focus for a while, drowsy and fuzzy and blurry around the edges.
He resurfaced to Gareth’s voice reading from volume three of Chauce’s moderately inaccurate histories. His prince was sitting in a chair pulled over to the bed, sock-clad feet up on the end of the mattress, occasionally looking over and talking to him about a line or a tale or a question: as if they were having a conversation, simple and straightforward.
Lorre remembered Gareth pulling him up out of the river. Gathering him into those sturdy arms, and running through rain and the Hall’s back doors. Holding him, keeping him close.
Gareth was and had always been practical at heart, as well as romantic: the same competence that’d chosen good traveling clothes and proceeded to the next step, and the next, on a quest. He’d kept on being that way even in the aftermath: ensuring Lorre felt warm and safe, peeling off river-wet clothing and finding a thick velvet robe in Lorre’s pack, checking anxiously on a thoroughly healed arm, requesting blankets and hot tea, handling his family’s questions, having a hushed earnest bedside meeting with Dan to share everything that’d happened. Lorre had been mostly awake for that, sitting up, occasionally interjecting. Gareth didn’t know all the details, especially about magic.
He couldn’t explain all of it himself. But he could promise King Ardan the threat had been dealt with. He knew there’d be more to come—that hadn’t been a resolution—but he thought it would work out, somehow. He felt it.
Dan had vowed, with young and royal assurance, that Lorre would have a home with them. As long as you want, he’d said. We’ll protect you.
He meant it, Lorre knew. Gareth had promised, and his brother would support that promise. Dan was also a king, with a king’s sense of fairness and gratitude and generosity. That wasn’t a naïve offer, but a sincere one.
He’d said the thank you, of course. He’d meant that, too.
He hadn’t said yes. He wasn’t sure he could.
He wasn’t sure he ought to.
Unfair. Too much to ask. Too much, after everything. The Marches and Gareth’s family needed to heal. Not another disruption.
He liked Gareth reading to him, though. He liked the crackle of the fire and the sage green of the bed-curtains and the patter of rain on glass. He liked that Gareth had known he’d want one of his own robes, extravagant and indulgent against recently remade skin.
He yawned, tucking a hand under his cheek. He wondered what his hair looked like.
Gareth paused at the motion, but Lorre didn’t say anything, so he went back to reading aloud. “ ‘It is said by some that King Jehan went mad after the passing of his wife at this time, but this is a falsehood spread by untrue historians, as indeed there is no madness in building memorial gardens, though yet there may be ill-considered choices on the part of a ruler who raises taxes seven times in order to do so…’ Do you think he really was mad? With grief, perhaps. But the last surviving Memorial Garden’s supposed to be beautiful. I wonder what they were like back then. That would’ve been even before your time, though. He must’ve loved her so very much. And I can see why he’d want to bring something to life. I wouldn’t raise taxes seven times over to do it, though. Anyway. ‘The peasants began to stir in discontent as a consequence, and—’ “
“The last Garden is beautiful,” Lorre said, pushing himself up on an elbow. “Or it was, a hundred years ago. Not what it was a hundred years before that, but not much is. I never saw the rest of them; the other nine were gone before I was born. War, uprisings, famine, moving of the capital city, that sort of thing. But the roses were still blooming all over the Tenth Garden, the day I was there. Every breath was full of them. I could take you, sometime.”
Gareth closed the history, with the care of someone trying hard not to shout with joy and reprieve; it shone in his eyes, at the corners of his mouth. He moved to the edge of the bed, took Lorre’s hand. “You’re awake.”
“Do all heroes have to state the obvious? I’m awake, I’m thinking about you and roses, I’m holding your hand.”
The smile danced in the rich brown of Gareth’s gaze. “So you are. How’re you feeling?”
“Resplendent. Is my hair a disaster?” He nudged tumbling strands out of his face with a quick request, not with his hand. “Have you slept, at all?”
“Some. I thought you’d be all right, but I didn’t want you to wake up without me.”
“Being my anchor.”
“You told me I was.” Gareth traced the back of Lorre’s hand with his thumb. He’d changed clothes as well, into old soft trousers and an equally soft forest-green shirt with rolled-up sleeves, but faint smudges lay beneath his eyes. “Headache, wanting tea, a scone, a spinach and cheese roll, any of that?”
“Maybe the tea?”
Gareth promptly poured more steaming liquid into his own cup, added a small foothill of sugar, handed the cup over. Lorre took it, sitting up. The rain redoubled, chattering to the leaves and the river. “Are we sharing again?”
“Always, if you want.” Gareth took a breath, let it out, watched his face.
“Ask me,” Lorre said, around tea. It was perfect. “Whatever it is you want to ask.”
“I don’t want to bring up anything you’re not feeling up to.”
“Bandits, magic, your weather, or my former lover appearing on your doorstep tomorrow? I’m thinking about them all already. If you mean sex, I could be persuaded, but you’re doing most of the work.”
“None of those. Well. Maybe the sex. No. Not until you’re feeling better.” Gareth took the teacup when Lorre lowered it, and set it on the table, and gathered Lorre’s hands up again. “We have something to talk about, don’t we? What you said, before everything. And how I feel.”
“Oh. Yes.” He couldn’t look up. He stared at the topmost blanket, a woven green-grey-blue river-inspired pattern. Maybe he could be some yarn. A blanket. He’d never been a blanket. “You don’t have to say anything. I’ve never been very good at not saying the wrong thing, so don’t worry about it.”
“Sometimes you’re right.” Gareth squeezed his hands. “You are terrible at listening. Only sometimes.”
“You don’t have to remind me.”
“And you tell me I’m the martyr,” Gareth muttered, half under his breath. “Lorre, listen. You’re nothing like anything I ever expected, and you’re everything I ever imagined. More. Everything I could never have imagined.”
“That’d be me. Unimaginable.”
“I love you,” Gareth said, and Lorre had to look up, at that.
Gareth was smiling at him: completely sincere, truthful as ever, hands holding his. “I’m so in love with you I don’t know how to say it. How to tell you. You walked out onto a beach barefoot, half-dressed, and I thought you were beautiful then. Like nothing I’d ever seen. And then you showed me how magic felt, and you told me you’d never lie to me, and you never have. You told me I was important—I don’t mean all the ballads and stories that I’m pretending aren’t being written, but what you said to me. That I was someone you could always find, someone you could see even with the whole world at your fingertips. And you said that was because of who I am. I’d always thought I was ordinary. Maybe a prince, just barely, but not exactly your shining golden storybook type. But you said that was enough—you said I could be a hero. Without being anyone different, only me.”
“But,” Lorre said. “That’s all just true. You didn’t need me to tell you.”
Gareth laughed, shook his head, held on more tightly. “I knew the stories. But I didn’t know how amazing you are. You try so hard to be kind, when you could be anything. I can see how hard you try. And I never knew I could want something as much as I want to keep standing at your side. To be with you. To catch you when you’re tired. To make you tea and keep your hands warm. I love you. That’s what I should’ve said, when you said it. I couldn’t believe I’d heard you right.”
“In your defense, we were being interrupted by bandits.”
“There is that,” Gareth agreed. “For someone who can hear the universe, you’ve got terrible timing.”
“I’m not good at not telling the world,” Lorre said, looking down at their hands, and back up. “When I want something.”
Gareth’s eyes sparkled. “You want me.”
“I don’t know why you’d want me. I’m impatient and reckless and sometimes I’m a river—”
“I’ll be here when you come back.” Gareth leaned in, pressed a kiss to the corner of Lorre’s mouth, stayed there: a caress, a nudge, a tip of their heads together. “I want to be here. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. I’ll go where you go. Or wait if you ask me to wait. Whatever you ask.”
“You?” Lorre’s heart was pounding. Like his body, like the heat of his prince beside him, it was all real. “You’d follow me. You’d try to keep me safe. Stubborn goat-herding hero. I want to come back to you. I want to always reach out and find you.”
“You can,” Gareth said, simple and clear, and reached for him, drew him closer, eased him down into the bed.
They kissed leisurely, slowly, unhurried; they moved together, bodies wrapped up in each other, but without a definite goal in mind. Concern about exertion lingered in Gareth’s eyes and careful touch, even as he slid a hand beneath the velvet robe to explore the smooth skin of Lorre’s back; he let their hips meet, arousal vivid there, but only nuzzled a kiss into Lorre’s throat, hand uncovering the line of his thigh.
Lorre murmured something that wasn’t a word and moved against him, liking the delicate drawn-out friction. Gareth rolled him to his back, opened the tie that held his robe closed, tasted his collarbone and chest, and ran a hand over his stomach as if discovering it all anew.
Lorre reached up and pulled him down closer. Wrapped one leg around Gareth’s waist. Gathered them both up into one tangle of desire, hard heat rubbing together.
Gareth paused, one arm bracing his weight, the fingertips of his other hand skimming Lorre’s shoulder, where the robe had opened, and down along his arm.
“I’m all right,” Lorre told him. “It wasn’t anything I can’t heal.”
“I know. If you need to feel it—every sensation, this body, being you—I’m here.” Gareth kissed his shoulder, his bicep. The soft scrape of auburn stubble made Lorre’s skin tingle. “I’m right here.”
“So am I,” Lorre said, hand in Gareth’s hair, feeling the waves over his hand like autumn silk. “I’m not leaving you. You’ve got me, now.”
Gareth’s smile curled against his skin. “I know that, too.”
“Could you possibly manage to be inside me sometime soon? I want to feel you.”
“Easy.” Gareth stroked his hip, his thigh. “Slow, and easy—I’ll make sure you feel it, but gentle. So it’s good for you.”
“It is,” Lorre said, heart in the words, in his mouth, in the touch of his fingers to Gareth’s arm. He made his fingertips fizz and twinkle like the effervescence of champagne, bubbles and giddiness against Gareth’s skin, the sensation of happiness.
Gareth glanced at the touch, at the glimmer of magic; and laughed, and kissed him.
They did make it slow, and tender: a sweet gradual opening of himself with Gareth’s fingers, with slippery herb-scented oil from a bedside drawer—Gareth refused to let him magically assist, and Lorre yielded and gave way and let his prince care for him—and the final gentle press of Gareth’s length inside him, filling him, sinking home.
That part was slow too, exquisite gentle rocking thrusts, until Lorre was breathless and trembling and aware of every hot glowing piece of himself, his hands clutching Gareth’s arms and the delicious swelling pulse of his cock, which Gareth was caressing with one hand, and the deep shuddering fulfilment where Gareth moved inside him. Even his toes tingled like the champagne.
He whispered, “Yes,” and Gareth gazed down at him with absolute delight and love and want, and then thrust again, and all at once they were speeding up, flying together, hips colliding and Gareth’s breath catching and Lorre’s whole body alight—
He felt Gareth inside him, at the same instant everything opened up and spilled over and flooded out of him; he dissolved into shuddering shaking unbearable bliss, and felt Gareth holding him, touching him, soothing him, after.
He managed, once he could talk, “It wasn’t diamonds, this time…”
Gareth kissed his left eyebrow, then looked around without bothering to move. His body lay heavy and sated atop Lorre’s, softening but still present inside. “Oh, that’s lovely.”
It was. All the small bits of fire—candle-flames, stray sparks from the hearth, the light of the oil-lamp beside the bed—had lifted from their wicks and homes, and hung hovering in the air around the room: a constellation of upswept joy.
Lorre, looking up at Gareth’s face, said, “Yes.”