Lanyth: The Fire

The warm morning light across my breasts created a valley of shadow between them, mirroring the darkness in my heart. It lay like a heavy stone there, and I was chained to its place by the insupportable memory of him who had left me alone beneath that bitter winter sky.

Yet my heart longed for his touch and presence. His warmth filled my soul with an inextinguishable fire, while he, so far away, existed only as one out of many vague remembrances of all those whom I had ever known — a cluster of old fancies garnered from this world's storehouse and brought forth again into life — not fresh, but frost-bitten and changeful.

Fancies which I remember the best times of my life with, of which I cling to like a handful of dried and withered flowers. As some frail relics we prize because they have been dear to us in our youth, though now worthless, so do I cling to these remembrances of my earlier days, as if their beauty were unspent and might blossom again under happier skies.

And I sit upon my bed, staring out at the snow-covered hills, a cold gray pall hanging over the land as the sun drifts away behind clouds that shall surely bring snow. For hours have passed thus since daybreak without any stirring or sound beyond the wind's wailing about my window pane. My candle is burned out; no sign of morning light shines through the dreary mist outside.

And my body, not a scrap of clothing on, nude to the world as I was born, sits upon my bed, bare to the cold as I wait for him to walk through my bedroom door. To see once more the light hair that falls down his forehead, to feel his arms around me and hear his voice telling me he loves me still, and then to go back into sleep until it is time for us to wake up together. But each moment grows longer as the clock ticks by. There will be another night soon where I must stare out into the dark and hope to see something move, even if only a ghostly figure slipping through an open door, so long as it brings comfort to know that someone walks here with me, and waits patiently in this empty room.

So I hold my hands against my cheeks and pray. Some force might push away the endless darkness from my mind, but no gods care to help me now. Only emptiness stands before me, making all these thoughts seem foolish and absurd. And I grow weary of them, wishing instead that he would come quickly and end this waiting. Why should we both have to suffer? Why can't we embrace one another as we always did and let tomorrow take its course without worrying too much about things that cannot yet be known or changed?

And so I start towards the window again, wondering why I came to a place like this.

I stare at my breasts in the window's reflection and watch my nipples grow hard from the cold. Tender goosebumps break upon my skin, wishing for a warm hand to stroke them and make them abide.

Then I notice a shadow across my body—a thin, wispy shape that hovers above me, hovering over the floor beneath the edge of my window. The mist outside has begun to glow with faint sunlight; it must cast strange shadows in every corner of this old castle. Yet as it draws nearer, it becomes clear that what hangs over me is not some dark specter from another realm but something small and winged, a moth that flies lazily between me and the open windowpane. It beats its wings slightly, making a soft chirruping noise as I stare back at it. I feel drawn to the open air beyond the pane and wonder whether the creature wants to escape my room or wishes to be close to my face, staring into my eyes with its mysterious green light.

I open the window and set the moth free, and the cold air stings my nude body like a slap across the face, but the sensation feels fresh, crisp, cold, and alive. As if this wash of cold air has awoken me from my slumber, I am free to smell the cold outside, inhale the sharp scent of winter, and finally feel alive. So I look up at the bright blue sky and breathe deeply of life, taking deep breaths to fill myself with warmth, knowing that I will freeze in moments unless I cover my skin somehow or find somewhere warmer than this lonely chamber.

I close the window and shiver.

I patter to the hearth, where a few dull embers lay, and place a few logs on the fire as I wrap my body in the warm furs we enjoy wrapping ourselves in.

Together.

And I smell his scent upon them and imagine his arms around me.

His love warmed me from inside like burning coals.

I stare at the logs begin to smoke, wisps floating around the wood as the embers trapped beneath them build in heat and intensity. They crackle with smoke until the smoke turns to heat and, finally, fire.

Soon, too soon for comfort, the flame rises towards the chimney. It licks against the brickwork with hungry tongues of yellow, red, orange, and blue, making a noise that fills the entire room—a loud hum that grows louder each second—and I am reminded of the passions which keep me warm inside. I can see their reflection now, growing brighter through the small glass pane above my fireplace; it is just enough light to let me know my lover is near, even though he might still be far away.

My hands explore under the furs, and I pretend they are him, touching me and searching for the spots upon my tender skin which ignite the same desires inside me. My heart pounds hard against my chest, and every muscle twitches from anticipation alone. Soon his strong body will press into mine again, kissing all those parts of me that make me want more of him. My fingers stroke my most private places, and I feel aroused, not at my touching, but by the ones I remember from his hands. How he kissed and caressed these intimate areas of myself made me feel like such a woman then — a complete person who knew how to give herself entirely to her beloved, unlike when he was gone.

I smile, remembering what we did before in bed, feeling naughty as I do now in memory. He would lift my nightgown and gaze upon my naked breasts while fondling himself in preparation for joining me. Then we would touch one another slowly with our lips and fingertips, exploring each other's bodies for the first time without any hesitation or reserve, learning about ourselves and becoming aware of the newness of this experience together. His hardness reached deeper inside me the closer I came toward the peak; the sight of this always excited me greatly because it showed the strength of his passion. And the look of love on his face during sex brought forth tears from some deep part of myself, which flowed down his cheeks and onto my bare belly, where they fell like rain. This has never been a dignified image, but I recall it now and try to focus on that rather than how desperately I yearn for him to return to me soon.

Every time we made love, it felt like the first time. The emotions were so fresh that every moment could change us entirely, if only for an instant, to remake him and me into something better. But no matter how many times he filled me, there seemed to be a void left inside after every act of pleasure; it grew more prominent each time until, finally, the ache became too great to ignore, driving me mad with need and longing. For hours afterward, I would stare up at the ceiling of my room, thinking of nothing else except his return and knowing that I must wait till then to become whole again.

And, as my sex tightened upon my digits, I gasped for breath as I imagined him with me. His mouth covered mine, taking away my senses as his tongue played around mine while he sucked all the air from my lungs and forced out all thought but what we did together. It is impossible for me now to think about anything but him: I am empty without him.

I lay gasping, lying in the furs, staring at the fire.

And I know no flame can warm me as well as he.