Knocking at the door woke him, and Vanyel flew upright, splashing water everywhere and slipping on the tub base. He caught himself on the fireplace, the bathwater sloshing around his calves like waves on Lake Evendim.
He rubbed his eyes, wondering how long he'd slept, and called out, "Yes?"
"I have brought you the meal you requested, Honoured Herald Mage!"
The inn master, of course, Vanyel remembered belatedly. "Thank you. You can leave it outside the door, I'll be a couple moments--" Towels, he needed a towel--Vanyel snatched the top one from the table by the window, and quickly dried himself before he wrapped it around his waist.
He cracked the door, peering out to check for people who might want to have long, tedious discussions about their grandfather's land rights with him, and found the hall empty. Vanyel eased the door a little wider, and found the tray that had been left for him. He studied it avidly, noting fresh bread, butter, preserved fruits, a bowl of some kind of stew--and a crock of ale.
Vanyel reached down to take the tray, his stomach suddenly aching with hunger.
"Enjoy your meal, sir!"
"Gah!" Vanyel nearly leapt out of his skin, flinching back into the room as he realized that the inn master had been standing behind the door the entire time. "Holy--"
"Speciality of the house," he added, giving Vanyel a cryptic wink.
Vanyel dispersed the mage energies he'd gathered into the fireplace, a jet of flame rocketing up the chimney with a dull roar. "You shouldn't have," he said. "Been in Holderkin land for the last four months--I'm pleased enough with anything."
The inn master's eyes brightened, and his face filled with wretched sympathy. "Oh dear Herald Mage, how terrible!"
"It wasn't that bad," Vanyel lied, hovering behind the door to preserve his modesty, yet oddly reluctant to close it. This was the most sympathy he'd gotten in--ever. He knew he shouldn't--the inn master was just trying to gain Vanyel's support for some pet project or another, Vanyel wasn't dumb enough to have missed that, and yet...
"I will bring you a second pitcher of ale--wine? Brandy, perhaps. No man should be made to suffer so," the inn master declared, clapping his pudgy little hands together and bowing. "And should you need anything else, just ask!"
Vanyel watched him bustle away, and felt a reluctant fondness growing. This is how bribery and corruption start, he thought grimly, tightening the towel around his hips and venturing into the hall to take the tray of food. Letting people be nice to you, enjoying it--I should really know better.
He took the ale, though. It'd be a shame to waste it.
***
Vanyel wrung out his shirt for the third time, and draped it across the chair he'd dragged in front of the fireplace. It wasn't exactly white--more a mottled cream, but he might be recognized at a Herald in them, and that was good enough. He poured himself another cup to congratulate himself on how responsible he was being, this time filling it with the red wine the inn master had left in front of the door. The ale was gone, drunk with his meal, and it'd gone down very smooth.
The sun was well set, and in spite of his relaxation, mild inebriation, and bone deep exhaustion, Vanyel wasn't actually tired. He lowered his shields carefully, checking for Yfandes--and slammed them back up when he felt the burgeoning edge of her pleasure, and a phantom impression of the weight on her back, and the huge--
"Shit," Vanyel muttered, blushing a deeper red than the wine in his mug. He wasn't that lonely.
He finished the cup, and refilled it, pacing the narrow room restlessly. He couldn't go down to the common room--he'd washed everything he owned, and the towel was not a very large towel. He'd read all the books he'd brought five times over by now, and the thought of reading any of them again filled him with boredom. Yfandes was clearly busy.
Vanyel's eyes flickered toward the bed, untouched still. It was big enough for two, maybe even three. And it looked sinfully comfortable and warm. He banished the idea lurking in the back of his mind, embarrassed to even be thinking it.
It's not like there's anything else to do, Vanyel thought. And Yfandes is surely too distracted to notice... He drank from his cup and found it dry. The fluted pitcher of wine the inn master had left was empty now, and Vanyel hesitated, looking into his mug. It was a fairly large mug. How much have I had?
He hadn't drunk anything more potent than weak beer in six months, because Holderkin saw intoxication as a sin. And before that, well. Aunt Savil had opinions on how much a Herald and a Mage should drink, and those opinions amounted to being no better than a sip here and there.
Have I truly not been properly drunk since before Father sent me to Haven? Vanyel thought on it, and realized that between--everything that had happened--and they'd sent him out on circuit only five months after Savil had brought him back from the Pelagirs. How strange.
Vanyel finished the mug in a fit of petty rebellion, and set it on the table with the remains of the meal that had been brought up.
He swayed, slowly, looking back to the soft, inviting bed. If Yfandes could fuck the first stallion she found, then there wasn't really anything wrong with him just...Vanyel licked his lips, chasing the last tastes of the wine, his hand coming to rest on the knot holding the towel on his hips.
It fell open, the towel slipping off his hips, but caught at the front. Vanyel glanced down and unhooked it, setting the towel on the side of the empty tub.
It was a little embarrassing, but it wasn't as though he couldn't. Vanyel checked the door lock, found it still locked, and gave the bed another slow, sideways look. He pulled back the top sheets, and found fresh, clean linens, silky smooth to his touch.
He needed--Vanyel studied the piled blankets, and chose a quilt patterned in blues and whites, and tugged it free, setting it over the white sheets. He looked around the room again, absurdly guilty and more than a little dizzy, and opened his shields just a crack.
Good, she's still-- Vanyel flushed, undeniably aroused at the phantom sense of being fucked by a cock as long as his torso. He set his shields back up, silently vowing to never, ever hint to Yfandes--gods he was disgusting. Vanyel hooked a finger in the strap of his saddlebags, dragging them over.
He found the bottle he'd packed six months ago, in spite of its utter uselessness on circuit. It was white glazed ceramic, about a hand and a half in length and just wide enough that Vanyel's fingertips touched when he held it by the neck. At the base it widened considerably, allowing room for the cure-all snake-oil salve that filled it.
Vanyel popped the cork out and sniffed it. Whatever oil that comprised the bulk of the salve hadn't turned, and it still smelled slightly of some kind of flowers. He tipped out a bit into his palm, and found it slick and milky white, almost obscenely so.
His lip stung, and Vanyel realized that he was biting it. It's not so bad. The mouth of the bottle widened, spread open to fit in the width of the cork, and Vanyel's breath caught in his chest. It's not wrong, he told himself, pressing the cork back in.
He set the bottle on the flagstones by the bed, and settled on the quilt he'd spread over the sheets, the salve cupped carefully in his hand. It wouldn't do to spill. He lay back, dragging the thick weight of the blankets on top of himself with his clean hand, and then--after a second's consideration--rolled onto his stomach. Soft, he thought, squirming into the quilt. It was like lying on silk after so many months of not even undressing to sleep.
The salve coated his hand, made his fingers slick, and Vanyel reached behind himself to slide a finger inside himself--
It's not the same.
Vanyel thumped his head into the mattress, frustrated beyond measure. Was this the rest of his life? Just feeling nothing? He just wanted the way Tylendel had made him feel.
The tears streaking his face were born out of the raw frustration at a year and a half of feeling like he'd died with 'Lendel. Couldn't he have some tiny bit of pleasure back? Something to make him feel less dead? 'Lendel was gone, but Vanyel wasn't!
"Fuck," he whispered, wiping his hand clean on his hip, and pillowing his forehead on his arms. He knew it was whining, he knew he should just keep trying to get along, but it just wasn't fair.
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Re: Fill- Vanyel/Blanket 2/? - A Restful Night
Date: 2015-08-19 07:59 pm (UTC)He rubbed his eyes, wondering how long he'd slept, and called out, "Yes?"
"I have brought you the meal you requested, Honoured Herald Mage!"
The inn master, of course, Vanyel remembered belatedly. "Thank you. You can leave it outside the door, I'll be a couple moments--" Towels, he needed a towel--Vanyel snatched the top one from the table by the window, and quickly dried himself before he wrapped it around his waist.
He cracked the door, peering out to check for people who might want to have long, tedious discussions about their grandfather's land rights with him, and found the hall empty. Vanyel eased the door a little wider, and found the tray that had been left for him. He studied it avidly, noting fresh bread, butter, preserved fruits, a bowl of some kind of stew--and a crock of ale.
Vanyel reached down to take the tray, his stomach suddenly aching with hunger.
"Enjoy your meal, sir!"
"Gah!" Vanyel nearly leapt out of his skin, flinching back into the room as he realized that the inn master had been standing behind the door the entire time. "Holy--"
"Speciality of the house," he added, giving Vanyel a cryptic wink.
Vanyel dispersed the mage energies he'd gathered into the fireplace, a jet of flame rocketing up the chimney with a dull roar. "You shouldn't have," he said. "Been in Holderkin land for the last four months--I'm pleased enough with anything."
The inn master's eyes brightened, and his face filled with wretched sympathy. "Oh dear Herald Mage, how terrible!"
"It wasn't that bad," Vanyel lied, hovering behind the door to preserve his modesty, yet oddly reluctant to close it. This was the most sympathy he'd gotten in--ever. He knew he shouldn't--the inn master was just trying to gain Vanyel's support for some pet project or another, Vanyel wasn't dumb enough to have missed that, and yet...
"I will bring you a second pitcher of ale--wine? Brandy, perhaps. No man should be made to suffer so," the inn master declared, clapping his pudgy little hands together and bowing. "And should you need anything else, just ask!"
Vanyel watched him bustle away, and felt a reluctant fondness growing. This is how bribery and corruption start, he thought grimly, tightening the towel around his hips and venturing into the hall to take the tray of food. Letting people be nice to you, enjoying it--I should really know better.
He took the ale, though. It'd be a shame to waste it.
***
Vanyel wrung out his shirt for the third time, and draped it across the chair he'd dragged in front of the fireplace. It wasn't exactly white--more a mottled cream, but he might be recognized at a Herald in them, and that was good enough. He poured himself another cup to congratulate himself on how responsible he was being, this time filling it with the red wine the inn master had left in front of the door. The ale was gone, drunk with his meal, and it'd gone down very smooth.
The sun was well set, and in spite of his relaxation, mild inebriation, and bone deep exhaustion, Vanyel wasn't actually tired. He lowered his shields carefully, checking for Yfandes--and slammed them back up when he felt the burgeoning edge of her pleasure, and a phantom impression of the weight on her back, and the huge--
"Shit," Vanyel muttered, blushing a deeper red than the wine in his mug. He wasn't that lonely.
He finished the cup, and refilled it, pacing the narrow room restlessly. He couldn't go down to the common room--he'd washed everything he owned, and the towel was not a very large towel. He'd read all the books he'd brought five times over by now, and the thought of reading any of them again filled him with boredom. Yfandes was clearly busy.
Vanyel's eyes flickered toward the bed, untouched still. It was big enough for two, maybe even three. And it looked sinfully comfortable and warm. He banished the idea lurking in the back of his mind, embarrassed to even be thinking it.
It's not like there's anything else to do, Vanyel thought. And Yfandes is surely too distracted to notice... He drank from his cup and found it dry. The fluted pitcher of wine the inn master had left was empty now, and Vanyel hesitated, looking into his mug. It was a fairly large mug. How much have I had?
He hadn't drunk anything more potent than weak beer in six months, because Holderkin saw intoxication as a sin. And before that, well. Aunt Savil had opinions on how much a Herald and a Mage should drink, and those opinions amounted to being no better than a sip here and there.
Have I truly not been properly drunk since before Father sent me to Haven? Vanyel thought on it, and realized that between--everything that had happened--and they'd sent him out on circuit only five months after Savil had brought him back from the Pelagirs. How strange.
Vanyel finished the mug in a fit of petty rebellion, and set it on the table with the remains of the meal that had been brought up.
He swayed, slowly, looking back to the soft, inviting bed. If Yfandes could fuck the first stallion she found, then there wasn't really anything wrong with him just...Vanyel licked his lips, chasing the last tastes of the wine, his hand coming to rest on the knot holding the towel on his hips.
It fell open, the towel slipping off his hips, but caught at the front. Vanyel glanced down and unhooked it, setting the towel on the side of the empty tub.
It was a little embarrassing, but it wasn't as though he couldn't. Vanyel checked the door lock, found it still locked, and gave the bed another slow, sideways look. He pulled back the top sheets, and found fresh, clean linens, silky smooth to his touch.
He needed--Vanyel studied the piled blankets, and chose a quilt patterned in blues and whites, and tugged it free, setting it over the white sheets. He looked around the room again, absurdly guilty and more than a little dizzy, and opened his shields just a crack.
Good, she's still-- Vanyel flushed, undeniably aroused at the phantom sense of being fucked by a cock as long as his torso. He set his shields back up, silently vowing to never, ever hint to Yfandes--gods he was disgusting. Vanyel hooked a finger in the strap of his saddlebags, dragging them over.
He found the bottle he'd packed six months ago, in spite of its utter uselessness on circuit. It was white glazed ceramic, about a hand and a half in length and just wide enough that Vanyel's fingertips touched when he held it by the neck. At the base it widened considerably, allowing room for the cure-all snake-oil salve that filled it.
Vanyel popped the cork out and sniffed it. Whatever oil that comprised the bulk of the salve hadn't turned, and it still smelled slightly of some kind of flowers. He tipped out a bit into his palm, and found it slick and milky white, almost obscenely so.
His lip stung, and Vanyel realized that he was biting it. It's not so bad. The mouth of the bottle widened, spread open to fit in the width of the cork, and Vanyel's breath caught in his chest. It's not wrong, he told himself, pressing the cork back in.
He set the bottle on the flagstones by the bed, and settled on the quilt he'd spread over the sheets, the salve cupped carefully in his hand. It wouldn't do to spill. He lay back, dragging the thick weight of the blankets on top of himself with his clean hand, and then--after a second's consideration--rolled onto his stomach. Soft, he thought, squirming into the quilt. It was like lying on silk after so many months of not even undressing to sleep.
The salve coated his hand, made his fingers slick, and Vanyel reached behind himself to slide a finger inside himself--
It's not the same.
Vanyel thumped his head into the mattress, frustrated beyond measure. Was this the rest of his life? Just feeling nothing? He just wanted the way Tylendel had made him feel.
The tears streaking his face were born out of the raw frustration at a year and a half of feeling like he'd died with 'Lendel. Couldn't he have some tiny bit of pleasure back? Something to make him feel less dead? 'Lendel was gone, but Vanyel wasn't!
"Fuck," he whispered, wiping his hand clean on his hip, and pillowing his forehead on his arms. He knew it was whining, he knew he should just keep trying to get along, but it just wasn't fair.