[Mkguild] Dream's Aria: Repudiation (3 of 4)

[Ryx]

Egland was almost wary of sitting upon the heavy-framed, plushly upholstered 
lounging couch that Dream guided him toward.  The marten’s residence was 
considerably less garish than the wardrobe he favored but it was still 
astoundingly luxurious.  The lounge alone, near twice as long as Egland was 
tall, was trimmed with soft buttery-hued leather and adorned with thick cushions 
of wheat colored silk.  Beside it were matching chairs all of which loosely 
faced a low table fashioned from thick planks of an ivory pale wood set upon a 
single pedestal of heavily engraved white marble.  On the table was a silver and 
alabaster tea service and crystal liquor service.  The crystal decanter was 
perhaps half full but not in use while the tea service was missing one cup and 
the pot steamed.
The floors were rough-faced tile laid out in some mostly obscured mosaic and 
covered with heavy, ornate rugs.  There was not a rush in sight nor for that 
matter dust or cobwebs.  The walls were hung with ornate tapestries save where 
carved wooden pillars rose to the gables above.  Those, too, were fashioned in 
pale wood and artfully worked.  The roof looked to be freshly thatched.  A 
single curtained doorway lead to another room.  In a pool of sunlight was a 
music stand and the dulcimer whose voice had called to Egland.
Dream’s hand pressed lightly at the small of Egland’s back again.  “Sit, Yacoub, 
you shant break it.” Egland did as he was bade and settled gratefully into the 
soft embrace of the lounging couch.  Dream paused a moment to tie the sash of 
his robe before taking up teapot and cup.  “Your arrival is precipitous, I’ve 
still got some heat in my tea.”  He poured a cup and handed it to the elk.
“Dor Avhenes.” Egland raised the cup in a toast to honor in the same language 
Dream had spoken in mutual accord for their link from the past.  “My thanks, 
Dream.”
Dream moved to sit on the arm of the couch and waved a hand in a complicated 
gesture of acquiescence.  “Jae, jhu.” He reiterated, “The door is ever open, as 
I said.  What brings you from the healer’s fief?”
Egland cast his eyes down and stared into his tea for several long seconds but 
Dream did not push his inquiry, merely waiting patiently with a slight forward 
lean and tilt of his musteline head.  “At least someone’s door is open.” Egland 
said at length without looking up.  “I am lost.”
“In your wanderings?”
Egland shook his head.  “No, I’ve been cast out.” He heaved a sigh as the tumult 
of emotions rose up in his breast with renewed heat.  “Bishop Vinsah turned me 
away and the master healer sent me from his hospice.”  His large, clumsy hands 
shook and he hastily set down the fragile alabaster and silver cup.  Tea lapped 
over the edge and to puddle upon the pale wood of the table but Dream made no 
move to dab it up.  Egland looked up at the animalistic musician in anguish as 
the emotions he had tried to quash welled up anew.  “I almost struck him, 
Dream.  I raised my hand to an unarmed man for no other reason than wounded 
pride.”
Sensing the crushing weight of despair falling about his visitor’s shoulders 
Dream slipped from the arm of the lounge to sit alongside him.  The elk was 
taller than he by a couple of hands and out massed him by a measurable sum but 
side by side upon the lounge they were of comparable size.  The marten put an 
arm across Egland’s broad shoulders.  “Almost, my friend, you almost did such a 
thing but did not.” He churred reassuringly, leaning close.  “I have witnessed 
the theft of life for much, much less.”  Egland reached up to place his hand 
atop the marten’s on his shoulder.   “What of this turning away?  I avoided as 
much of the visitation as I possibly could, but for plying my music at banquets 
and the more rewarding music we shared before your departure.”
Egland’s regal head dropped and he stared down at his free hand.  Thick digits 
of pale earthen brown tipped with blunted hoof-like finger calluses of burnished 
brown.  Upon the green of his tabard his hand was an ugly thing the hue of dog 
droppings.  He clenched the offending hand into a fist.  “Today I learned that I 
was being lied to.  Each time I had asked about the Bishop’s health I was told 
that he had yet to awaken from the severity of his injuries.
“Today I learned that he has been awake as long as I have.  When I tried to 
speak with him he sent me away as if I were a mere petitioner.”  Egland’s voice 
trembled through a broken tenor as he laid out the details of his disastrous 
failed audience.  “He banished me away like some child of no import.”
Dream squeezed the elk’s strong shoulders consolingly with his arm and let the 
distraught knight lean against him.  “And the healer, Coe?”  Egland could only 
look at dream with one eye because the marten’s face was very close; keen brown 
eyes alert as they gazed upon him.
Close, so very close.  Egland could follow the contours of his musteline muzzle 
and jaw; see how the rich red-brown of his facial fur faded to the cream hue of 
his chin and the broad swath of cream-on-brown that lead down the front of 
Dream’s throat.  That band of pale fur flared broad across his upper chest and 
vanished beneath the collar of the marten’s night-robe.  He felt strangely aware 
of the marten’s proximity and it only added another layer to his already chaotic 
emotions.
“Coe would not let me in to see the Bishop, he blocked the door.  When I tried 
to force my way past him and he did not move I almost struck him!”  The elk 
dropped both hands to his lap and wrung at the finely woven cotton of his 
knightly tabard.  It did not entirely fit well but none of his old garments fit 
his new body at all and he had not gotten them altered or replaced.  “He became 
justly wroth and ordered me from his hospice.”  Egland’s throat ached, his 
breast ached, and his eyes burned with the tears he refused to shed.  “Now…
“Now I’ve no where to go!  No one to serve, no purpose.” He moaned brokenly.
Raising his free hand Dream lightly touched the side of Egland’s strong cervine 
muzzle.  “You’ve here, ts’amut.  Service and purpose can be found later but for 
now you’ve this place.” The musician crooned softly as he stroked the elk 
knight’s jaw.  “And me.”  Egland turned his head into the touch and closed his 
eyes.  Dream leaned close to raise his muzzle toward one of the road, scalloped 
ears and whisper; “Weep, my friend, none here shall gainsay your sorrow.  Let it 
free.”
Egland’s tall ears slowly backed and his head dropped to Dream’s chest.  With a 
single strained gasp for breath the elk clutched at the minstrel and wept as he 
had not done so since learning of Namir’s death.
 
When he returned to himself the room was dimly lit by the last fading rays of 
sunlight dropping behind the western peaks.  Dream was stroking his upper back 
lightly with one hand while his other supported the elk’s head against his 
chest.  Egland found his nose buried in the cream hued fur of Dream’s chest and 
the musician’s scent filled his breath.  The marten smelled of florally fragrant 
soap foremost with the dryness of fur underlying that.  Hints of a deep, earthy 
musk tickled Egland’s sensitive nose; a masculine scent.  Mingled amongst the 
lot was the acrid odor typical of all mustelids.  As a bouquet the musician’s 
personal scent was not unpleasant.
Egland blinked and raised his head slowly.  “I’m sorry.” He croaked ashamedly 
with grief-roughened voice and released his drowning man’s grip upon the 
marten.  He saw dark stains upon the fine black silk from his tears and damp 
smears upon the marten’s roughed chest fur.
“Do not be sorry for grief, Yacoub.” Dream lightly stroked the elk’s 
tear-stained cheek fur.  “Grief withheld leads to nothing but a cancer of the 
spirit.”
Egland turned his head into the touch and took a deep, shuddering breath.  “I 
have not – allowed myself that weakness in many years.”  His body felt drained 
and boneless, weak from the mightiness of his released sorrow.  “Your robes –“ 
The marten’s whiskers tickled his nose.
“Can be laundered, and fur washed, ts’amut.” Dream admonished gently and 
inclined his head to brush fine whiskers and soft fur across the elk’s nose and 
lips.  Egland shuddered.  “You do no one service by not allowing yourself to 
grieve, Yacoub.   Even if you only do so in empty solitude.”  The marten’s short 
cheek ruff and stiff whiskers crossed along the line of the elk’s jaw slowly and 
Egland raised his hands to Dream’s upper chest in a futile gesture to push 
himself away but could not find the strength.  “That is what your Bishop is very 
likely doing, hiding behind his fear and grief in the solitude of his recovery 
room, brooding upon it and allowing the dark wound to fester.”  Dream drew his 
head back and raised his gaze to meet Egland’s, nose to nose.  “It is for him 
you should embrace your own grief, gain strength from it, and be there when he 
can no longer hold his to his breast and needs someone to help him release it.”
Egland stared into the minstrel’s gentle brown eyes and heard his words but felt 
no comprehension.  His ears slowly turned back and a quickness that was not 
grief stole into his breath.  The hands lain against Dream’s chest to push him 
back turned to catch at the open lapels of his robe.  One of the marten’s hands 
raised to rest lightly in the center of the elk’s upper chest.  Egland leaned 
close against the pressure of Dream’s hand while using his grasp upon the 
musician’s robes to pull him in.
The elk’s kiss was rough, desperate with the intensity of urgency for the 
pliant, compassionate musician in his grasp.  A pained moan escaped Egland’s 
throat as their lips met and his hands released the silken fabric of the 
night-robe.  Without breaking his kiss, breath gusting swift and hot from his 
nostrils, his hands slipped under the silk.  The texture of Dream’s fur was as 
silken as his robes, deep and lusciously dense under Egland’s fingers as they 
slid up across Dream’s shoulders.
“No.” The word was as gentle as the marten’s touch, muffled by the rough 
intensity of the elk’s hungry kiss and went unheard.  Egland’s hands slid over 
Dream’s shoulders and drew back the neckline of the robe spilling it down the 
marten’s back.  It pooled at his elbows and waist, held only by the knotted sash 
about his midriff.  Dream’s hand pressed more firmly at Egland’s chest but 
beyond that he made no attempt to break the kiss or escape.  “No, ts’amut.”


      

!DSPAM:4c3959d8169521804284693!
-------------- next part --------------
An HTML attachment was scrubbed...
URL: <http://lists.integral.org/archives/mkguild/attachments/20100710/b72fd9e0/attachment-0001.html>