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vigorliTitle: The Embodiment of Beauty and Grace
Author: Ariel Tachna
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando, Orlando/Karl (implied)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Will a case of mistaken identity keep two star-crossed lovers from finding each other before it’s too late?
Warnings: None
Betas:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
tularia, sirkayem
Disclaimer: I don't know them. I make no claims about them. I just want to have fun.
Author’s Note: I know how muchnamarie120 loves this story. We’ve talked about it countless times, so it seemed like the perfect thing to write for her birthday. namarie120, sweetheart, I hope it lives up to your imaginings.
Special thanks tookinay, uinendolothen, elvishlady09, sileya, and baileymoyes. Yes, it takes seven people to replace namarie120 when she can’t beta for me.
Banner bytularia
“Viggo.”
The sound of the beloved voice speaking my name, not the name I gave to the world but the name I kept for myself, stole my breath from me. The rest of the world knew me as Cyrano. Only those from my youth called me Viggo. Only those I loved. Lifting my head, I met the glittering eyes of the man who had held my heart from our first acquaintance. We had not been aware, then, of the differences in our station. I had seen only an engaging child. I had been only a green youth. It had not mattered to either of us that I was the son of an aristocrat, no matter how minor, while he was an orphan. We called each other brother and played freely over the hills of my father’s estate in Bergerac, caring only for one another and the pleasure we could find in that company.
“Yes, Orlando?” I asked, not sure what to make of the bemused expression on the beautiful face or the confusion in the glistening brown eyes. He had changed so much since then. He was just as engaging, but with a polish he had not then possessed. His experience with la préciosité had given him a certain style and particular preferences that he had not evinced when first I set eyes on him. The love and pursuit of beauty in all its forms, particularly in poetry, had honed his mind. He had never needed anything to hone his body.
“Did you…” he paused, gulping down his words.
I rose from my seat, setting aside the poem I was composing. I did not expect to finish it, not when the Spaniards were poised to attack at any moment, John Noble’s revenge on me for foiling his plans to despoil Orlando’s innocence. I had killed to keep him safe from one man. Dying now seemed a small price to pay to keep Orlando safe from yet another lecher. “What is it?”
Orlando did not speak still, but he withdrew a letter from his pocket. “Why did you never tell me?” he asked finally.
It took me a moment to recognize what he held, but when I did, my breath seized in my chest. He held the billet-doux I had written the night before with Karl’s name at the bottom and Karl’s seal in the wax. The letter Karl had taken from me in a snit earlier when he found out I had continued to write Orlando in his name all these months. “What do you mean?” I asked in return, clinging to the pretense that had allowed me to say to Orlando words I would never have dared otherwise.
“This letter… all the letters… the gentle, loving, passionate words… why did you not tell me you wrote them?”
He knew. Despite my best efforts, despite all my work with Karl, Orlando had discovered our secret. “You wanted him,” I reminded Orlando, remembering all too clearly his words in David’s garden. I had finally, finally worked up the courage to tell him how I felt after he had asked me to meet him. “He has things to say to you,” William, his valet, had whispered in my ear, asking for a meeting. Caught off guard, I said the first place that came to mind: the pastry shop owned by my good friend and fellow poet, David Wenham. “You told me you would die on the spot if his poetry was not equal to his beauty. You praised him so highly, desired him so greatly. And look at me. Look at me, Orlando. You who love beauty and grace above all things… how could I hope to compete with him for your favor?”
Orlando stared at me for a long time. He knew my face, had known it from his childhood and my youth, but I wondered when he last looked, really looked at me as an adult, and saw the moustache I used to hide the scar that bisected my lip, the nose that dominated my face and had made me the object of ridicule until I was old enough to silence all comers with my sword. As an adult, I feared only one thing: Orlando’s mockery. Any other threat, any other’s mocking words, I could dismiss or refute, but I had only dared speak to him under the cover of night, in a voice not truly my own, for a single hard word from his lips would destroy me. I had known it for years and had taken great care never to give him that opportunity.
Slowly, he lifted his hand to cup my cheek. My eyes closed of their own volition, fighting the desire to pull him into my embrace, not as the brothers we had pretended to be when he came to Bergerac as a child, an orphaned ward of my father, but as lovers.
“Beauty and grace are more than just physical,” he reminded me. “I was fascinated by a pretty face when I saw him from a distance, and I imagined what he might say to me so I asked to meet with you, hoping you would agree to keep him safe. You met me in David’s garden and for the first time since I have known you, I saw you angry with me. I understand now, but at the time, I remember only how much that hurt. The first letter came that evening, and it was more than I could have hoped for. Only your poetry had ever compared. Did you know that you were the standard by which I judged every poem I ever heard or read? I began to imagine a life with him, but I needed more before I made my decision. I wanted him to speak to me. Was it you, that night, a few weeks later, who whispered to me in the darkness? Was it your voice that moved me to tears? It was not grace or beauty of the physical kind that won the kiss I bestowed that night. On the wrong man, Viggo. Yes, I wanted him, but you would have condemned me to a life with a man I could not love rather than offering me what my heart truly desired.”
My mind recorded his words, but all I truly felt was his hand touching my cheek. It was not the first time we had touched, not the first time we had stood this close, but the masks were gone now, the barriers destroyed. My heart stood exposed, naked before him, his to cherish or destroy. And yet, I knew that Karl’s heart was likewise engaged. My friend did not have my gift for words, but that did not mean he felt less deeply. “He loves you,” I protested. “Every word in every letter expressed his devotion. He would have said it if he knew how. He is not sot, Orlando, only shy. With your love and my help, he could learn what to say to make you happy.”
Orlando shook his head. “They were your words. His beauty caught my eye, and then I fell in love with his soul, until his soul so outshone his face that I saw only that. And now I learn that the soul is not his, but yours. Do not tell me you invented those words on a whim, Viggo. Do not lie to me. ‘Twas your own heart you poured out, though you signed his name.”
I would not speak. To tell Orlando the truth was to condemn my friend – for Karl had become my friend as we worked together to woo Orlando – to a life alone. To lie would be to destroy my friendship with Orlando forever. While I had long ago resigned myself to living without his love, I did not think I could live without his regard.
“Your eyes say what your lips will not,” he observed, saving me from answering. His other hand rose to my face so that my cheeks were cupped between his palms, giving me no choice but to meet his gaze.
“How did you know?” I asked finally.
“The voice that whispered to me, as I stood on my balcony and fell forever in love, was familiar, though I did not place it then,” Orlando admitted. “I did not think anything of it, though, for I had only heard Karl speak once before, and then only haltingly. When I heard it again, I had no way of knowing for sure the voice was not his. But he said things to me, though I realized it not at the time, that he could not have known. He… you spoke of my hair, of the day I changed it. He was not even in Paris then. He could not have remembered it, yet you commented on it at the time, teasing me as is your wont. I might have let that pass except that it happened again, more than once. I resolved to ask Karl about it when he returned to Paris, but the siege dragged on and on. Three months, you have been parted from me, yet the letters – his letters, I thought – never failed to reach me. I was alone in Paris despite the crowd, missing my lover and my best friend. So I came here. I had to come. When I asked, he had no explanation. I pressed for one and he finally told me that the lover and the friend were, in truth, one and the same. Would you never have spoken?”
I shook my head. “No. You deserve so much better than me, Orlando. What will your précieuses friends say when they see us together? Beauty and the Beast, they will call us, or any other manner of names. Not to my face certainly, but you do not have my facility with a sword. They will destroy you.”
“I care nothing for them,” Orlando insisted, “not when my other option is having your love. Tell me you love me, Viggo.”
I wanted to deny it, to send him back to Karl who could stand by his side without fear of ridicule, but his eyes were so luminous, begging me to acknowledge my feelings, to acknowledge him.
“I love you, Orlando,” I murmured, finally giving voice to my heartfelt emotions, the ones I had poured out in Karl’s name for months, braving enemy fire to slip through to Vimy where I could send the missives to the one who held my heart, the one who embodied beauty and grace.
“As I love you.”
I could no longer deny myself what I had desired so long, not with him offering it, offering himself to me freely. He knew the truth. The whole truth. And still he said he loved me. I yet feared he would change his mind when faced with society and the rejection and ridicule of his friends, but I also knew there was every chance I would not live long enough to stand at his side before God and men.
The hands cradling my cheeks still rested there, our gazes locked as we stood frozen in place, overwhelmed by the strength of the declaration we had just made. I never doubted that Orlando meant what he said. He had always been so careful not to say those words, even when he was first talking about Karl to me. He spoke of his interest, his attraction, but not love, not until he knew Karl was worthy. And when the words of love had finally come in the garden, they had come as a result of my words, not Karl’s beauty. I had not dared hope again after that, spending my energy on wooing my love for another man, but it seemed fate had other plans for us, plans I would not fight.
Lowering my head, I dared with him what I had never dared before, neither with man nor woman. Our lips brushed tenderly, the thrill of that gentle contact more powerful than any physical sensation I had ever felt. No injury, no intimacy had ever moved me as profoundly as that simple touching of mouths. Then Orlando’s head tipped back, his mouth opening beneath mine and I rediscovered what it meant to feel. My heart had been frozen in my chest for so long, only now thawing as I felt the warmth of my beloved’s body against mine. I took the offered bounty, for to do less would have been to insult his gift.
His lips were soft and pliant beneath mine, giving so sweetly. My heart ached to think I had nearly let him escape me, had in fact all but handed him to another man. Not anymore. He was mine now, and I would never let him go. My arms tightened, pulling him closer, our bodies locked tightly together. My desire, my desperation must have carried over to him, for his fingers threaded into my hair, urging me to deepen the kiss, to take all he had to offer.
With a groan, I plundered his mouth, my tongue exploring his lips, his teeth, his palate. He tasted sweet. I had known he would, but I had not imagined him to be this sweet, this… fulfilling. When his tongue tangled with mine, I was lost, all sense of time and space gone. The world outside the hovel I had claimed when we set up our siege ceased to exist. The upcoming battle was forgotten. I knew only his lips, his hands, his body.
My hands moved over his shoulders, his back, downward to the swell of his buttocks, stopping there hesitantly. Despite the evidence to the contrary, despite the eager way he molded himself to me, I could not quite believe I had the right to touch him that way, to truly claim him beyond the kiss we already shared.
My musings were interrupted by the whining of a cannonball and its explosion as it hit the ground nearby, shaking the thin walls of my shelter. Called back to the reality of our situation, I pulled Orlando against me as if to shelter him with my body. “You must flee,” I told him urgently. “It is not safe to stay here.”
“No!” he protested. “Give me a sword. I want to stay at your side.”
I could not stop myself. I kissed him again, but swiftly. “I would like nothing more than to have you forever with me,” I swore, “but you have no training, no experience. You would not survive this battle if you stayed, and I would not survive losing you.”
“Then come with me,” he pleaded. “For I would not survive losing you either.”
I was tempted. For the first time in my life, something drew me more powerfully than the lure of battle, but this was not a duel, not simply a question of honor. “If I do that, I will be labeled a deserter,” I warned him. “And I will be tried and executed. You have seen me fight. You know I can defend myself, even against impossible odds, but I would have no defense against such a charge.”
Tears welled in his eyes as he nodded his understanding.
“Go with David and William,” I urged. “They will keep you safe until the battle is over and I can join you. I will resign my commission and we will never be parted again if that is your wish. Just be strong for me today.”
“Stay safe,” he ordered, leaning up to kiss me again. “You have never broken a promise to me. Do not start now.”
“I will find you,” I promised. “And nothing will separate us again.”
He blinked back tears. “I love you,” he told me firmly, starting toward the door. I caught his hand and pulled him into one last desperate embrace. Despite my bravado, despite my promise, I knew there was every chance I would not survive the upcoming fight. If I had to die, I wanted my last memory to be of my Orlando in my arms.
“Whatever happens, remember that I love you, too.”
“You promised!” he reminded me.
When I first believed I might have Orlando’s interest, the night William arranged our meeting in the garden behind David’s pastry shop, it took a fight against a hundred men to calm me. Now that I knew he loved me in truth, I could surely face down a thousand.
“And I will keep it.”
********************
We did not go far when Viggo sent me from the battle, David and William dragging me as far as the nearest town, where I flatly refused to go any further. That was this morning. Now, dusk has come and I sit here listening to the silence that has settled finally. All day, I could hear the sound of cannons and muskets being fired. I cannot decide if I prefer that or this deathly stillness. At least with the noise, I knew the battle still raged. I feared for Viggo’s safety then as I do now, but the silence scares me in a way the sound of battle could not.
My lover – how strange to think of him that way! – has always relished the battle. A hundred against one, and he was victorious. He fought, he said, not for his ugly nose, but for my beautiful eyes. He has always defended me, against Noble who would have used his position to force me into an affair I did not want, against Valvert, the vicomte who importuned me and whom Viggo killed, against Montfleury, the actor whose insinuations left me feeling dirty each time we met. Why it never occurred to me that he might love me, I do not know, except that all the hidden signs of his love have been part of my life as long as I have known him. He has always been a gallant man, flattering me with pretty words, even before I was old enough to understand them, much less desire them. Or perhaps that is why I desire them.
His tastes have always influenced mine. His wit drove me to seek it in my circle of friends, just as his prowess with a sword taught me to appreciate that in a man. The only strike against him was his nose. He ordered me to look at him today, as if I had forgotten what he looked like. What he did not understand, perhaps still does not understand, is that I have never deemed him ugly. His is admittedly not a classical beauty. His nose is indeed too prominent for that, but unlike many of my peers, I have never considered it an abomination or a perversion. Grace and beauty come in many forms as I told him this morning. He taught me that, though he still does not understand it. How could I not know it with him as my example?
And so when I arrived in Paris, I sought others who appreciated grace and beauty. The précieuses matched him in wit, but while they recognized the brilliance of his mind, they did not ever look past his nose to the depth of his azure gaze or the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of his limbs. He cared nothing for their regard, though, so I did not waste my breath trying to convince them. I was so sure he knew the strength of my regard. And he did know that I valued his friendship. He visited me occasionally, twitting me gently for my association with the précieuses. He considered them shallow, seeing only surface beauty, and to some extent, he was right. He did not seem to lump me in with them, though, so again, I did not spend my breath trying to change his mind. I simply valued the time we spent together. He never tried to charm me. His wit was always caustic, teasing with me, scathing when directed at those whom he deemed beneath him: the falsely devout, the pretend nobles, those who put on airs of any kind. I knew him capable of fine poetry, but I did not know my heart would be so susceptible.
Then I saw Karl at l’Hôtel de Bourgogne and all other thoughts flew from my mind. Younger than Viggo, though older than me, he had the same regal, powerful air that I had always admired in my friend. His dark hair and pale skin were such an elegant contrast, and he moved with the same harnessed grace that was Viggo’s hallmark. My heart raced and my body pulsed wildly as I imagined that power focused on me. Despite what society thinks, I am not a strumpet, up for auction to the highest bidder. I have had many suitors, many protectors, but their attentions have always been chaste. I would have it no other way. Only the comte Noble has ever dared to push for more, but even that I resisted to the best of my ability, putting him off with words and vague promises of times to come.
Now the game I played may well have cost me my love. I tricked him into keeping Karl and Viggo in Paris when this war started, by weaving a web of misdirection with careful words and allusions, so that his amour propre believed I spoke of him, instead of Karl. Viggo spoke to me in Karl’s name beneath the balcony that same night, convincing me to love him as I had none other. Noble interrupted us before I could share more than a kiss with Karl, but seeing that embrace was enough to drive him to seek revenge, ordering them to battle immediately. Given the revelations of this morn, perhaps I should thank the man, for I would have bound myself to Karl body and soul that night, had Noble not interfered. Karl’s words – nay, Viggo’s words – had moved me to the point of surrendering myself in love.
I should have known when Karl could not speak in the courtyard of Clomire’s townhouse that something was strange. I sent him away to gather his eloquence and he did, or so I believed. The words in the night bore no resemblance to the hesitant fumblings in the courtyard. Instead, they washed over me in heated waves. I started the night mistrustful, bandying words with all my wit, but he tamed me, until I trembled with the force of the emotions evoked by his words. He could have asked almost anything and I would have granted it. Yet he did not ask. He spoke only of what it meant to him to know that he had moved me so, to trembling and tears. "Oui,” I admitted. “Je tremble et je pleure et je t’aime et suis tien. Et tu m’as enivré.”
I said those words to the right man, but it was not the right man who climbed the trestle to claim the kiss Viggo persuaded me to bestow. It tears at my heart now to realize that the first kiss I ever offered a lover was given to a man I did not love. I do not hate Karl, but knowing that he truly is the man I met in the courtyard, his sentiments, his desires physical, with none of the spiritual aspect that is so central to my being, leaves me cold, unmoved now by his beauty, except to appreciate it objectively. The thrill I once felt, the spark of desire is gone when I look at him, evoked now by my Viggo’s familiar face.
I should have known when he kissed me, truthfully, though I did not understand at the time. Viggo had said such beautiful words when he described what a kiss could be, words engraved forever now upon my heart. “Un baiser, mais à tout prendre, qu’est-ce?” he asked before answering his own question. “Un serment fait d’un peu près, une promesese plus precise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer, un point rose qu’on met sure l’i du verbe aimer; un secret qui prend la bouche pour oreille, un instant d’infini qui fait un bruit d’abeille, une communion ayant un goût de fleur, une façon d’un peu se respirer le cœur, et d’un peu se goûter au bord des lèvres, l’âme!” And then Karl climbed my balcony and claimed the kiss I had agreed upon. I did not know what to expect of a kiss, having never allowed that liberty before, but Viggo’s words had made me hopeful. Surely an experience that led to such poetry could only be… perfect. My disappointment, then, when I did not feel the vow confirmed, the promise realized, when I did not taste his soul on my lips should be perfectly understandable.
My surprise this morning when Viggo finally took me in his arms was complete, yet infinitely welcome. There can be no denying the physicality of the kiss we shared, not when his hard body demanded my pliancy, not when his mouth claimed mine completely. The difference was in what else I felt as we meshed our lips and our lives in that moment. When Karl kissed me, I felt kissed. When Viggo kissed me, I felt loved, cherished, protected, adored. I felt the secret that passed from his lips to mine. I breathed his heart in and breathed mine out into his care. His kiss was everything his words had promised and more.
My only desire now is to see my lover again, to know he is safe and well. And then to have him fulfill the promise his lips and hands made as they claimed me. I will never be less his than I am in this moment, even if fate steals him from me today, but instinct tells me that I still have so much to learn, to experience, a fullness of love and joy that only he can bring. The minutes drag on as the silence deepens with the encroaching darkness. I can only wait now, holding faithful vigil until he is once again at my side.
Author: Ariel Tachna
Pairing: Viggo/Orlando, Orlando/Karl (implied)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Will a case of mistaken identity keep two star-crossed lovers from finding each other before it’s too late?
Warnings: None
Betas:
tularia, sirkayemDisclaimer: I don't know them. I make no claims about them. I just want to have fun.
Author’s Note: I know how much
namarie120 loves this story. We’ve talked about it countless times, so it seemed like the perfect thing to write for her birthday. namarie120, sweetheart, I hope it lives up to your imaginings.Special thanks to
okinay, uinendolothen, elvishlady09, sileya, and baileymoyes. Yes, it takes seven people to replace namarie120 when she can’t beta for me.Banner by
tularia“Viggo.”
The sound of the beloved voice speaking my name, not the name I gave to the world but the name I kept for myself, stole my breath from me. The rest of the world knew me as Cyrano. Only those from my youth called me Viggo. Only those I loved. Lifting my head, I met the glittering eyes of the man who had held my heart from our first acquaintance. We had not been aware, then, of the differences in our station. I had seen only an engaging child. I had been only a green youth. It had not mattered to either of us that I was the son of an aristocrat, no matter how minor, while he was an orphan. We called each other brother and played freely over the hills of my father’s estate in Bergerac, caring only for one another and the pleasure we could find in that company.
“Yes, Orlando?” I asked, not sure what to make of the bemused expression on the beautiful face or the confusion in the glistening brown eyes. He had changed so much since then. He was just as engaging, but with a polish he had not then possessed. His experience with la préciosité had given him a certain style and particular preferences that he had not evinced when first I set eyes on him. The love and pursuit of beauty in all its forms, particularly in poetry, had honed his mind. He had never needed anything to hone his body.
“Did you…” he paused, gulping down his words.
I rose from my seat, setting aside the poem I was composing. I did not expect to finish it, not when the Spaniards were poised to attack at any moment, John Noble’s revenge on me for foiling his plans to despoil Orlando’s innocence. I had killed to keep him safe from one man. Dying now seemed a small price to pay to keep Orlando safe from yet another lecher. “What is it?”
Orlando did not speak still, but he withdrew a letter from his pocket. “Why did you never tell me?” he asked finally.
It took me a moment to recognize what he held, but when I did, my breath seized in my chest. He held the billet-doux I had written the night before with Karl’s name at the bottom and Karl’s seal in the wax. The letter Karl had taken from me in a snit earlier when he found out I had continued to write Orlando in his name all these months. “What do you mean?” I asked in return, clinging to the pretense that had allowed me to say to Orlando words I would never have dared otherwise.
“This letter… all the letters… the gentle, loving, passionate words… why did you not tell me you wrote them?”
He knew. Despite my best efforts, despite all my work with Karl, Orlando had discovered our secret. “You wanted him,” I reminded Orlando, remembering all too clearly his words in David’s garden. I had finally, finally worked up the courage to tell him how I felt after he had asked me to meet him. “He has things to say to you,” William, his valet, had whispered in my ear, asking for a meeting. Caught off guard, I said the first place that came to mind: the pastry shop owned by my good friend and fellow poet, David Wenham. “You told me you would die on the spot if his poetry was not equal to his beauty. You praised him so highly, desired him so greatly. And look at me. Look at me, Orlando. You who love beauty and grace above all things… how could I hope to compete with him for your favor?”
Orlando stared at me for a long time. He knew my face, had known it from his childhood and my youth, but I wondered when he last looked, really looked at me as an adult, and saw the moustache I used to hide the scar that bisected my lip, the nose that dominated my face and had made me the object of ridicule until I was old enough to silence all comers with my sword. As an adult, I feared only one thing: Orlando’s mockery. Any other threat, any other’s mocking words, I could dismiss or refute, but I had only dared speak to him under the cover of night, in a voice not truly my own, for a single hard word from his lips would destroy me. I had known it for years and had taken great care never to give him that opportunity.
Slowly, he lifted his hand to cup my cheek. My eyes closed of their own volition, fighting the desire to pull him into my embrace, not as the brothers we had pretended to be when he came to Bergerac as a child, an orphaned ward of my father, but as lovers.
“Beauty and grace are more than just physical,” he reminded me. “I was fascinated by a pretty face when I saw him from a distance, and I imagined what he might say to me so I asked to meet with you, hoping you would agree to keep him safe. You met me in David’s garden and for the first time since I have known you, I saw you angry with me. I understand now, but at the time, I remember only how much that hurt. The first letter came that evening, and it was more than I could have hoped for. Only your poetry had ever compared. Did you know that you were the standard by which I judged every poem I ever heard or read? I began to imagine a life with him, but I needed more before I made my decision. I wanted him to speak to me. Was it you, that night, a few weeks later, who whispered to me in the darkness? Was it your voice that moved me to tears? It was not grace or beauty of the physical kind that won the kiss I bestowed that night. On the wrong man, Viggo. Yes, I wanted him, but you would have condemned me to a life with a man I could not love rather than offering me what my heart truly desired.”
My mind recorded his words, but all I truly felt was his hand touching my cheek. It was not the first time we had touched, not the first time we had stood this close, but the masks were gone now, the barriers destroyed. My heart stood exposed, naked before him, his to cherish or destroy. And yet, I knew that Karl’s heart was likewise engaged. My friend did not have my gift for words, but that did not mean he felt less deeply. “He loves you,” I protested. “Every word in every letter expressed his devotion. He would have said it if he knew how. He is not sot, Orlando, only shy. With your love and my help, he could learn what to say to make you happy.”
Orlando shook his head. “They were your words. His beauty caught my eye, and then I fell in love with his soul, until his soul so outshone his face that I saw only that. And now I learn that the soul is not his, but yours. Do not tell me you invented those words on a whim, Viggo. Do not lie to me. ‘Twas your own heart you poured out, though you signed his name.”
I would not speak. To tell Orlando the truth was to condemn my friend – for Karl had become my friend as we worked together to woo Orlando – to a life alone. To lie would be to destroy my friendship with Orlando forever. While I had long ago resigned myself to living without his love, I did not think I could live without his regard.
“Your eyes say what your lips will not,” he observed, saving me from answering. His other hand rose to my face so that my cheeks were cupped between his palms, giving me no choice but to meet his gaze.
“How did you know?” I asked finally.
“The voice that whispered to me, as I stood on my balcony and fell forever in love, was familiar, though I did not place it then,” Orlando admitted. “I did not think anything of it, though, for I had only heard Karl speak once before, and then only haltingly. When I heard it again, I had no way of knowing for sure the voice was not his. But he said things to me, though I realized it not at the time, that he could not have known. He… you spoke of my hair, of the day I changed it. He was not even in Paris then. He could not have remembered it, yet you commented on it at the time, teasing me as is your wont. I might have let that pass except that it happened again, more than once. I resolved to ask Karl about it when he returned to Paris, but the siege dragged on and on. Three months, you have been parted from me, yet the letters – his letters, I thought – never failed to reach me. I was alone in Paris despite the crowd, missing my lover and my best friend. So I came here. I had to come. When I asked, he had no explanation. I pressed for one and he finally told me that the lover and the friend were, in truth, one and the same. Would you never have spoken?”
I shook my head. “No. You deserve so much better than me, Orlando. What will your précieuses friends say when they see us together? Beauty and the Beast, they will call us, or any other manner of names. Not to my face certainly, but you do not have my facility with a sword. They will destroy you.”
“I care nothing for them,” Orlando insisted, “not when my other option is having your love. Tell me you love me, Viggo.”
I wanted to deny it, to send him back to Karl who could stand by his side without fear of ridicule, but his eyes were so luminous, begging me to acknowledge my feelings, to acknowledge him.
“I love you, Orlando,” I murmured, finally giving voice to my heartfelt emotions, the ones I had poured out in Karl’s name for months, braving enemy fire to slip through to Vimy where I could send the missives to the one who held my heart, the one who embodied beauty and grace.
“As I love you.”
I could no longer deny myself what I had desired so long, not with him offering it, offering himself to me freely. He knew the truth. The whole truth. And still he said he loved me. I yet feared he would change his mind when faced with society and the rejection and ridicule of his friends, but I also knew there was every chance I would not live long enough to stand at his side before God and men.
The hands cradling my cheeks still rested there, our gazes locked as we stood frozen in place, overwhelmed by the strength of the declaration we had just made. I never doubted that Orlando meant what he said. He had always been so careful not to say those words, even when he was first talking about Karl to me. He spoke of his interest, his attraction, but not love, not until he knew Karl was worthy. And when the words of love had finally come in the garden, they had come as a result of my words, not Karl’s beauty. I had not dared hope again after that, spending my energy on wooing my love for another man, but it seemed fate had other plans for us, plans I would not fight.
Lowering my head, I dared with him what I had never dared before, neither with man nor woman. Our lips brushed tenderly, the thrill of that gentle contact more powerful than any physical sensation I had ever felt. No injury, no intimacy had ever moved me as profoundly as that simple touching of mouths. Then Orlando’s head tipped back, his mouth opening beneath mine and I rediscovered what it meant to feel. My heart had been frozen in my chest for so long, only now thawing as I felt the warmth of my beloved’s body against mine. I took the offered bounty, for to do less would have been to insult his gift.
His lips were soft and pliant beneath mine, giving so sweetly. My heart ached to think I had nearly let him escape me, had in fact all but handed him to another man. Not anymore. He was mine now, and I would never let him go. My arms tightened, pulling him closer, our bodies locked tightly together. My desire, my desperation must have carried over to him, for his fingers threaded into my hair, urging me to deepen the kiss, to take all he had to offer.
With a groan, I plundered his mouth, my tongue exploring his lips, his teeth, his palate. He tasted sweet. I had known he would, but I had not imagined him to be this sweet, this… fulfilling. When his tongue tangled with mine, I was lost, all sense of time and space gone. The world outside the hovel I had claimed when we set up our siege ceased to exist. The upcoming battle was forgotten. I knew only his lips, his hands, his body.
My hands moved over his shoulders, his back, downward to the swell of his buttocks, stopping there hesitantly. Despite the evidence to the contrary, despite the eager way he molded himself to me, I could not quite believe I had the right to touch him that way, to truly claim him beyond the kiss we already shared.
My musings were interrupted by the whining of a cannonball and its explosion as it hit the ground nearby, shaking the thin walls of my shelter. Called back to the reality of our situation, I pulled Orlando against me as if to shelter him with my body. “You must flee,” I told him urgently. “It is not safe to stay here.”
“No!” he protested. “Give me a sword. I want to stay at your side.”
I could not stop myself. I kissed him again, but swiftly. “I would like nothing more than to have you forever with me,” I swore, “but you have no training, no experience. You would not survive this battle if you stayed, and I would not survive losing you.”
“Then come with me,” he pleaded. “For I would not survive losing you either.”
I was tempted. For the first time in my life, something drew me more powerfully than the lure of battle, but this was not a duel, not simply a question of honor. “If I do that, I will be labeled a deserter,” I warned him. “And I will be tried and executed. You have seen me fight. You know I can defend myself, even against impossible odds, but I would have no defense against such a charge.”
Tears welled in his eyes as he nodded his understanding.
“Go with David and William,” I urged. “They will keep you safe until the battle is over and I can join you. I will resign my commission and we will never be parted again if that is your wish. Just be strong for me today.”
“Stay safe,” he ordered, leaning up to kiss me again. “You have never broken a promise to me. Do not start now.”
“I will find you,” I promised. “And nothing will separate us again.”
He blinked back tears. “I love you,” he told me firmly, starting toward the door. I caught his hand and pulled him into one last desperate embrace. Despite my bravado, despite my promise, I knew there was every chance I would not survive the upcoming fight. If I had to die, I wanted my last memory to be of my Orlando in my arms.
“Whatever happens, remember that I love you, too.”
“You promised!” he reminded me.
When I first believed I might have Orlando’s interest, the night William arranged our meeting in the garden behind David’s pastry shop, it took a fight against a hundred men to calm me. Now that I knew he loved me in truth, I could surely face down a thousand.
“And I will keep it.”
********************
We did not go far when Viggo sent me from the battle, David and William dragging me as far as the nearest town, where I flatly refused to go any further. That was this morning. Now, dusk has come and I sit here listening to the silence that has settled finally. All day, I could hear the sound of cannons and muskets being fired. I cannot decide if I prefer that or this deathly stillness. At least with the noise, I knew the battle still raged. I feared for Viggo’s safety then as I do now, but the silence scares me in a way the sound of battle could not.
My lover – how strange to think of him that way! – has always relished the battle. A hundred against one, and he was victorious. He fought, he said, not for his ugly nose, but for my beautiful eyes. He has always defended me, against Noble who would have used his position to force me into an affair I did not want, against Valvert, the vicomte who importuned me and whom Viggo killed, against Montfleury, the actor whose insinuations left me feeling dirty each time we met. Why it never occurred to me that he might love me, I do not know, except that all the hidden signs of his love have been part of my life as long as I have known him. He has always been a gallant man, flattering me with pretty words, even before I was old enough to understand them, much less desire them. Or perhaps that is why I desire them.
His tastes have always influenced mine. His wit drove me to seek it in my circle of friends, just as his prowess with a sword taught me to appreciate that in a man. The only strike against him was his nose. He ordered me to look at him today, as if I had forgotten what he looked like. What he did not understand, perhaps still does not understand, is that I have never deemed him ugly. His is admittedly not a classical beauty. His nose is indeed too prominent for that, but unlike many of my peers, I have never considered it an abomination or a perversion. Grace and beauty come in many forms as I told him this morning. He taught me that, though he still does not understand it. How could I not know it with him as my example?
And so when I arrived in Paris, I sought others who appreciated grace and beauty. The précieuses matched him in wit, but while they recognized the brilliance of his mind, they did not ever look past his nose to the depth of his azure gaze or the breadth of his shoulders, the strength of his limbs. He cared nothing for their regard, though, so I did not waste my breath trying to convince them. I was so sure he knew the strength of my regard. And he did know that I valued his friendship. He visited me occasionally, twitting me gently for my association with the précieuses. He considered them shallow, seeing only surface beauty, and to some extent, he was right. He did not seem to lump me in with them, though, so again, I did not spend my breath trying to change his mind. I simply valued the time we spent together. He never tried to charm me. His wit was always caustic, teasing with me, scathing when directed at those whom he deemed beneath him: the falsely devout, the pretend nobles, those who put on airs of any kind. I knew him capable of fine poetry, but I did not know my heart would be so susceptible.
Then I saw Karl at l’Hôtel de Bourgogne and all other thoughts flew from my mind. Younger than Viggo, though older than me, he had the same regal, powerful air that I had always admired in my friend. His dark hair and pale skin were such an elegant contrast, and he moved with the same harnessed grace that was Viggo’s hallmark. My heart raced and my body pulsed wildly as I imagined that power focused on me. Despite what society thinks, I am not a strumpet, up for auction to the highest bidder. I have had many suitors, many protectors, but their attentions have always been chaste. I would have it no other way. Only the comte Noble has ever dared to push for more, but even that I resisted to the best of my ability, putting him off with words and vague promises of times to come.
Now the game I played may well have cost me my love. I tricked him into keeping Karl and Viggo in Paris when this war started, by weaving a web of misdirection with careful words and allusions, so that his amour propre believed I spoke of him, instead of Karl. Viggo spoke to me in Karl’s name beneath the balcony that same night, convincing me to love him as I had none other. Noble interrupted us before I could share more than a kiss with Karl, but seeing that embrace was enough to drive him to seek revenge, ordering them to battle immediately. Given the revelations of this morn, perhaps I should thank the man, for I would have bound myself to Karl body and soul that night, had Noble not interfered. Karl’s words – nay, Viggo’s words – had moved me to the point of surrendering myself in love.
I should have known when Karl could not speak in the courtyard of Clomire’s townhouse that something was strange. I sent him away to gather his eloquence and he did, or so I believed. The words in the night bore no resemblance to the hesitant fumblings in the courtyard. Instead, they washed over me in heated waves. I started the night mistrustful, bandying words with all my wit, but he tamed me, until I trembled with the force of the emotions evoked by his words. He could have asked almost anything and I would have granted it. Yet he did not ask. He spoke only of what it meant to him to know that he had moved me so, to trembling and tears. "Oui,” I admitted. “Je tremble et je pleure et je t’aime et suis tien. Et tu m’as enivré.”
I said those words to the right man, but it was not the right man who climbed the trestle to claim the kiss Viggo persuaded me to bestow. It tears at my heart now to realize that the first kiss I ever offered a lover was given to a man I did not love. I do not hate Karl, but knowing that he truly is the man I met in the courtyard, his sentiments, his desires physical, with none of the spiritual aspect that is so central to my being, leaves me cold, unmoved now by his beauty, except to appreciate it objectively. The thrill I once felt, the spark of desire is gone when I look at him, evoked now by my Viggo’s familiar face.
I should have known when he kissed me, truthfully, though I did not understand at the time. Viggo had said such beautiful words when he described what a kiss could be, words engraved forever now upon my heart. “Un baiser, mais à tout prendre, qu’est-ce?” he asked before answering his own question. “Un serment fait d’un peu près, une promesese plus precise, un aveu qui veut se confirmer, un point rose qu’on met sure l’i du verbe aimer; un secret qui prend la bouche pour oreille, un instant d’infini qui fait un bruit d’abeille, une communion ayant un goût de fleur, une façon d’un peu se respirer le cœur, et d’un peu se goûter au bord des lèvres, l’âme!” And then Karl climbed my balcony and claimed the kiss I had agreed upon. I did not know what to expect of a kiss, having never allowed that liberty before, but Viggo’s words had made me hopeful. Surely an experience that led to such poetry could only be… perfect. My disappointment, then, when I did not feel the vow confirmed, the promise realized, when I did not taste his soul on my lips should be perfectly understandable.
My surprise this morning when Viggo finally took me in his arms was complete, yet infinitely welcome. There can be no denying the physicality of the kiss we shared, not when his hard body demanded my pliancy, not when his mouth claimed mine completely. The difference was in what else I felt as we meshed our lips and our lives in that moment. When Karl kissed me, I felt kissed. When Viggo kissed me, I felt loved, cherished, protected, adored. I felt the secret that passed from his lips to mine. I breathed his heart in and breathed mine out into his care. His kiss was everything his words had promised and more.
My only desire now is to see my lover again, to know he is safe and well. And then to have him fulfill the promise his lips and hands made as they claimed me. I will never be less his than I am in this moment, even if fate steals him from me today, but instinct tells me that I still have so much to learn, to experience, a fullness of love and joy that only he can bring. The minutes drag on as the silence deepens with the encroaching darkness. I can only wait now, holding faithful vigil until he is once again at my side.
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