A Love that Will Not Die

You may have noticed that I recently catalogued my hard drive and found a bunch of old writing to post. This will be the last of my discoveries for awhile, but I think it’s a good one. This little scene once again addresses Kail “Kith” Wentworth’s particular obsession where Domerin is involved. It comes from the super hero writing forum my husband ran a few years back.
. . .

Whisper fastened the last knot into the heavy rope and sat back to admire his handy work. The binding was loose enough that it wouldn’t cause the man any pain, but tight enough to withstand a good deal of struggle. He had done his best to find a comfortable position for the man, leaving his arms bent so that they could rest against the bed while he slept, hoping that would keep him from aching too badly when finally he woke. He peered down at his captive’s sleeping face and felt a small stab of guilt.

It’s just for a little while, he told himself firmly. Just until I’m sure…

He quickly stifled that line of thought and focused his attention on other things. He had stripped off the man’s shirt and replaced it with a light button down shirt so that he could easily reach the man’s wounds, just in case they needed tending. He had already checked the one on his back before binding him, but now he leaned over the angry red mark on the man’s abdomen and carefully traced his fingers along it. There were no signs of tearing or bruising. He had been fairly certain he would be able to take care of anything that may have happened to Domerin during the scuffle, but he was relieved to see there were no signs of internal bleeding. He hadn’t wanted Domerin hurt, even if he was confident in his ability to patch him up afterwards.

Satisfied that the man’s life was in no danger, Whisper settled back and let his eyes rake over his captive once more. He couldn’t help but drink in the sight of that familiar and yet painfully unfamiliar body which he’d spent so much time longing for. He had the same familiar contours, muscular, and well built, though the muscle tone was far better defined than it had been when last he’d seen the man without a shirt. The same familiar scars still traced lines across his dark skin, but there were so many new ones it made him want to weep. How many times had his poor Domerin felt the sting of pain? The cold hand of death seeking for him?

He leaned over the man, beginning his appraisal of him all over again, starting with his face. He looked so peaceful laying there asleep. There were no troubles of the waking world, no worries, no dangers, only the firm line of his jaw, fierce and determined even in sleep. His unruly midnight hair had fallen over his face again, and he gently pulled it aside with his pale fingers and tucked the stray locks behind his ears. Domerin’s skin beneath his hands was smooth and warm and it gave him a small thrill to feel it again after so long.

His hand inevitably wandered to the scars on the other man’s cheek. His fingers ran gently down the scar which ran lengthwise down the left side of his cheek, feeling the familiar roughness against his finger. As he had so many times in the past, he imagined the ragged piece of shrapnel which must have carved the groove across his face. He imagined how he might have been able to do a better job in patching up the initial wound, leaving less of a scar, or perhaps none at all. But without the scar, he mused to himself, would it really be Domerin? It was quite a distinctive mark. Though he would gladly have spared Domerin the pain of its creation, it was hard to imagine him without the scar.

The other scar on his cheek was similar in nature, though Whisper had no idea how it had come to be. His finger shifted from the lengthwise scar to the one which ran across it, wondering all the while how his lover had come to wear it. It was similar to the first scar in many respects. Whisper imagined it had been quick and violent, and that its placement had indicated a great deal of luck on Domerin’s part. A knife, perhaps, or something with an equally sharp point had been the origin. And more than likely meant for his eye. Whoever had sewn him back together had done a magnificent job, considering that the wound had intersected another scar. Again he marveled that the man’s face could have been somehow disfigured yet instead it seemed only enhanced by the marking.

His fingers strayed from the mystery scar and brushed across the sleeping man’s lips, feeling the warmth of his breath as he exhaled. It brought a smile to his own lips, thinking how many times he had kissed this man, how many times he had brought a smile to those lips. Once more he wanted to see them turn up in joy at the sight of him. Once more he wanted the man to welcome his lips when they pressed against his.

Almost without thinking he had leaned down until his own face was mere inches above Domerin’s. Then he closed his eyes, inhaled deeply and pressed his lips against those of the sleeping man. He thrilled at the familiar warmth, imagining he felt a tingling sensation as their lips came together. For one blessed moment he could close his eyes and imagine that all was right with the world, that Domerin had welcomed him back once more, that any moment the man’s arms would enfold him and they would tumble together into bliss…

But of course Domerin couldn’t move his arms at the moment, even if he were awake, bound as they were to the headboard. The moment ended and he lifted his face again, peering down at the sleeping man’s face, trying hard not to think about how badly he wanted the man whose face was cradled in his arms. The sleeper shifted slightly, perhaps drifting closer to the waking world, and his lips parted slightly. Unable to resist those welcoming lips, Whisper bent his head again and once more caught the sleeper’s lips in his own. This time it even seemed that the sleeper responded, an unconscious reaction, perhaps, to a gesture he was well used to. A tiny shiver ran down his spine to be kissed in this manner by Domerin, even if it was just an unconscious reaction, even if it was the other man he was thinking of in his sleep. For a moment he could remember what it was like to be loved by Domerin and it made his heart ache.

The kiss ended; the dreamer shifted deeper into sleep once again and Whisper let him go, sliding down until he was laying against the warm body beneath him, his head resting against the crook where head met shoulder, his fingers absently stroking the sleeper’s neck as if trying to sooth him into sweet dreams. The brief contact was enough to make him realize that he ached in other ways. Having the man he’d wanted for so long so close that his warmth was leaking into his flesh all over was too much. He forced himself to pull away, pushing himself back into a sitting position so that he could once again look down over the sleeper. Domerin’s warmth faded from him, but he felt calmer, more in control than he’d been a moment before. The last thing he wanted to do was loose control and do something to Domerin he would regret later.

He turned his focus back to his examination of the sleeping man, this time peering down at his chest. His pale fingers traced familiar scars, recalling how Domerin had received each one. His hands inevitably made their way to the unfamiliar scars. Once again he wondered where each one had come from, how deep each wound had been, how close it had come to claiming his life. Only the bright red mark of his latest wound was spared his caress. He didn’t want to cause the man any pain. He traced the muscle contours of the man’s chest, admiring how his work had finely honed his muscles over the years. Always there was a fond smile on his lips.

His inspection moved slowly and tenderly all the way down the man’s chest until finally his pale fingers caught the rough fabric of the man’s jeans. For a moment his fingers lingered over the silver button and he was nearly overwhelmed by the desire to undo the fastenings. He wanted to know if the man’s legs were as scared as his arms and chest. But it was more than that; he wanted something he knew he couldn’t have, something he knew he didn’t dare take. He had to wait, until Domerin invited him in again. As impatient as he was, he wouldn’t go so far as to steal from the man in that manner. He withdrew shaking hands and once again peered down on the sleeping form.

Now the sleeper stirred again, so strongly that his arms moved against the binding that held him, but the ropes were secure and after a moment the sleeper stopped resisting, as if he accepted that resistance would get him nowhere. He twisted, as if that would bring him up out of sleep faster, his back coming up off the bed as if he were fighting his way up out of sleep.

Whisper watched him closely. He had chosen this particular sedative because it was fast acting. It was quick to take the recipient down into the depths of sleep, and reluctant to let them go once it had them in its embrace. He would be slow to wake. Whisper was counting on that. He needed Domerin to be easy to control. A man with Domerin’s strength may have easily broken free, even from his careful bindings, if he’d been allowed to awaken to full strength. If the drug held on to him just enough, he could let the man wake up without being balanced enough to make use of his full, brute force strength. Another syringe lay on a table beside the bed, within easy reach, in case it should be needed to drive the man back down into sleep quickly.

For now, he wanted Domerin to wake, wanted the man to see him. He wondered what his reaction would be now that the man knew he was alive. His greatest hope would be for the man to awaken and confess his love right then. But though it was what he wanted most, there was only a faint glimmer of hope in him that any such thing would happen. The harlot who had ensnared him had a strong hold, with deep claws, and Legion’s grasp was strong, his grip hard to break. It would be a long while yet before Domerin was able to express his love and invite him for the joining he so longed for. He was patient. He would remain by Domerin’s side for as long as it took.

The dark eyelids fluttered, revealing a flash of blue-grey beneath. Whisper leaned forward so that his face would be the first thing the man saw when his eyes opened fully. The man was not easily released from sleep, the drug did its job well. It was several breathless minutes before the blinking eyes finally focused on his face. Whisper smiled, all of his love and admiration poured into the single small gesture. Domerin’s dark brows furrowed and confusion was written into his beautiful face. Whisper gave him all the time he needed, quietly reassuring the man with his smile.

Domerin’s jaw worked but it seemed to take him several moments to find his voice. “K…Kith?” He finally stammered and Whisper felt a jolt of thrill run through his chest to be called by the man’s special name for him. Wasn’t this proof enough that the man still loved him? If there was no affection left in him, why would he still use that special form of address as the first without being prompted or reminded?

“Yes,” He cooed to the sleeper, reaching down to brush his cheek with one pale hand. “Yes, it’s me, Domerin.”

The confusion grew deeper. “H…how?” He gasped. “You… you’re dead.”

“No.” He shook his head vigorously. “No, I was never dead. I know you think that. I know it seemed that way, but I’ve been alive all this time. I’ve been waiting, for the time when we could be together.”

Disbelief greeted his response. The man beneath him shifted, trying to sit up, and discovered his bindings for the first time. He pressed against them gently, his legs falling still when he found he couldn’t move them, but his arms tugging at the bindings, straining, twisting for several seconds before falling still again. “What is this?” He demanded, strength returning to his voice, anger lurking just below its surface.

“It’s nothing.” Whisper reassured him quickly, one hand on each shoulder, urging him to lay still. “You’re perfectly safe here. I just… needed you to stay. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

A soft sound escaped his captive and Whisper thought it was almost a growl. Strength gathered in the man’s limbs and he jerked against his bonds so savagely that it made Whisper gasp. The ropes held, but dug deeply into the flesh they held and Whisper had to bite the inside of his lip to keep from crying out. When the bonds didn’t loosen, the man jerked again, straining hard against the ropes, twisting his arms so savagely Whisper feared he would dislocate something before the ropes gave.

“Stop! Stop!” He cried, near to tears, pressing frantically against the man’s shoulders, trying to settle him back down, imagining such violent movements must have kicked up more pain from the man’s healing wounds. “You’ll hurt yourself! Please, Domerin!”

But the man didn’t stop. He was unrelenting in his attempts to break free, though the ropes bit deeper into his flesh and his movements left him breathless and gasping, still he strained. Finally, with tears blurring his eyes, Whisper fumbled for the syringe on the table beside the bed, glad now that he’d left it so close to reach. He threw himself on top of the other man, forcing him back down with what little strength he had. The man’s body bucked beneath him, trying to throw him off to continue his struggles, and Whisper had to bite his lip to try and hold back tears while he concentrated on sliding the needle into the soft flesh of the man’s shoulder.

The drug began to work quickly and Domerin finally fell still beneath him. He breathed a soft soft sigh of relief before he pushed himself up again to look down at the man. He cringed at the glare that was waiting on the other man’s face. Domerin’s eyes were like ice and that gaze chilled him to the bone.

“Why are you doing this?” Domerin demanded of him, his voice a hiss, dark and heavy with anger.

“You’ll understand.” Whisper reassured him. “Soon, very soon. Please don’t look at me that way Domerin. I’m doing this for you!”

“Let me go.” He demanded softly as the drug began to take him and his eyes drooped as though they were growing heavier by the moment. “You’re making a mistake.” He murmured as sleep enfolded him in its light embrace.

Whisper leaned so far over the other man that his forehead rested against Domerin’s. A single hot tear forged a path down his cheek and landed on Domerin’s still face. “It’ll be okay.” He said softly to the sleeping form, but he wasn’t sure if the words were meant for the other man any more or if he really meant them for himself. “Everything will be okay soon. You’ll see.”

He straightened, brushed the moisture from his cheek, then settled down in the bed next to the man. He laid his head against his bare chest, wrapped one pale arm around his dark form and let his eyes roll back into his head as he began to form the dream…