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“Stop! Stop! You have to let me go back!”
They've come upon a lake just miles from the palace, in the woods beyond the capital. It is night and it is dark. Jupiter is a constant, heavy presence in the sky, large and red with swirling storm-clouds. There are other moons, too—moons that Liesel has studied since childhood—but their light does not quite manage to break through the thick foliage. All around are old trees and wild undergrowth. Liesel hears no sound but their trampling feet, and the distant wail of a speeding train.
Serge has one large hand around Liesel's upper arm, at once guiding and restraining him. Under the scant light Liesel can just make out Serge's face. He is frowning deeply, and his eyes look far from kind. He turns to glare at Liesel as if what Liesel asks of him is foolish, and he shakes his head and continues to pull Liesel along.
“You can do nothing for them,” he says.
“I can! I know I can!”
“And what is that?” Serge asks, and comes to a sudden stop.
Liesel, unprepared, runs into him, and stares up at him in increasing distress.
“What can you possibly hope to accomplish?” Serge continues.
“I...” Liesel cannot think of what to say. In truth he does not know. He only knows that he must try. It is not his fault that his world has come to this, his people pitted against his government, but it will be his fault if he does nothing to resolve it.
And was that not his purpose? Was he not meant to speak for them both?
“If you'd only take me to my father,” he says. “I could speak with him.”
“It seemed clear to me that he does not wish to speak with you,” Serge counters.
“But he brought me there.”
“To keep you out of the way. At most he meant to use you.”
“You can't know that!” Liesel says.
Serge's expression does not waver. He frowns sternly, his eyes sharp and lacking in sympathy. But then he isn't one for pity. He isn't one for emotion in the face of danger either—except anger. He feels that strongly, Liesel knows. He can see it in Serge's eyes, feel it in the grip of Serge's hand on his arm. Serge is angry, furious, but beneath that Liesel thinks there is a healthy dose of fear.
Fear for Liesel. Fear of what could have happened if his father had meant to be rid of him.
There is a certain clarity to Serge's gaze, too, and Liesel knows that whatever he might say, whatever he might think, however ignorant he might be kept himself, Serge knows far more about the events of this world than Liesel ever will. Serge has always known more; he's made it his business to. It some ways it seems unfair. What is Serge but a boy from Earth grown into a man of Jupiter? What business does he have involving himself in Ganymedean politics?
“How did you know I was there?” Liesel asks and relents. He stops struggling and stares into Serge's eyes in the hopes of finding more than anger there, but it is a weighty task under the circumstances.
“The Lord Chancellor has his own spies,” Serge says.
“He sent you?”
“He informed me of your whereabouts. I came of my own accord.”
“But he knew you would come,” Liesel insists.
Serge does not agree. Neither does he deny it. He but looks at Liesel with that stern expression and that turbulent anger in his eyes. He does, however, loosen his hold just so. It not longer causes Liesel pain, and Liesel knows that Serge's temper is cooling.
They stand quietly together in the darkness, staring at one another in a silent exchange of anger, hopelessness, and that insistent yearning that has drawn them together since they were both just boys of sixteen. Around them a soft breeze rustles through the leaves, and further toward the distant city Liesel can hear another wail of a train. It sounds mournful, or perhaps he is imposing his own feelings upon it. Everything seems mournful to him now, when the whole world is in turmoil.
Finally Serge releases his arm entirely and brings his hand to Liesel's face. His rough palm feels soft and warm against Liesel's cheek. It melts Liesel's resolve, and all thoughts of returning from whence they'd come flee in the face of such gentleness.
“You look filthy,” Serge says. His voice still sounds grim, but Liesel knows better than to assume that's all there is to it.
“I've not had many chances to bathe since I was caught,” Liesel replies.
What follows seems an entirely natural progression, though it sets Liesel's heart racing and twists his stomach with ever-present shame.
They assist one another out of their clothing, Serge's piled carelessly on the ground, Liesel's folded neatly near the trunk of a tree. Then they take to the lake, Serge's hands still warm on Liesel's skin, supportive and comforting when just before they'd been harsh and demanding. The water is cool at night, but nowhere close to frigid—tepid, lukewarm, refreshing. Jupiter casts its light between the branches, reflected as a broken, rippling image upon the water's surface.
It is a beautiful evening, but Liesel feels melancholy. He drifts in the water, his mind still stuck on thoughts of his father, and the growing tension that exists between his government and his people. He does not know how to resolve it, though he believes it to be in his power to do so. It is his responsibility, he thinks; it is his duty. To allow it to continue would be the greatest of failures.
But there is Serge, with his steely gaze and his welcoming arms. Serge is warm and safe and familiar, while the rest of it seems so hopeless.
It has always been hopeless, Liesel knows; surely he is not the only one to bear the blame.
Serge takes his hand and pulls him close and Liesel follows without protest. For a moment their hands remain locked, palms pressed tight and fingers entwined—scar to scar. Then Serge releases his hold and embraces him. Liesel allows himself to be held and lifted, looks down into Serge's eyes and feels all the many emotions he rarely allows himself to feel, not because he doesn't want to but because he knows it to be forbidden.
Lust, desire. They are symbolic to his people, and to his people Liesel is symbolic of them, yet he does not always know what they mean—isn't allowed to, though over the years he has come to learn. He has felt them so infrequently, has put so much effort into repressing them that they take him by surprise whenever they rise up to conquer his senses. Serge is always the cause; he has been for many years, and Liesel expects he will continue to be for many more. Serge takes pride in that, Liesel knows; it makes him smug, gives him something to hold over Liesel's head, to taunt him with in the moments that Liesel insists upon denying he feels anything at all.
But he feels many things, and out there in the darkness, in the coolness of the lake, caught between the distant palace to the east and his childhood home to the west, Liesel allows himself to feel them all.
His hands frame Serge's face and he closes the distance between them.
Serge's eyes remain open as they kiss, boring into him as if to say “I knew all along.”
Time passes with the wind rustling through the trees and the soft lapping of the lake against the shore. Liesel is drifting, floating, his fair hair streaming along the water as Serge's hands hold him in place, solid, secure, and uncharacteristically tender.
They've come upon a lake just miles from the palace, in the woods beyond the capital. It is night and it is dark. Jupiter is a constant, heavy presence in the sky, large and red with swirling storm-clouds. There are other moons, too—moons that Liesel has studied since childhood—but their light does not quite manage to break through the thick foliage. All around are old trees and wild undergrowth. Liesel hears no sound but their trampling feet, and the distant wail of a speeding train.
Serge has one large hand around Liesel's upper arm, at once guiding and restraining him. Under the scant light Liesel can just make out Serge's face. He is frowning deeply, and his eyes look far from kind. He turns to glare at Liesel as if what Liesel asks of him is foolish, and he shakes his head and continues to pull Liesel along.
“You can do nothing for them,” he says.
“I can! I know I can!”
“And what is that?” Serge asks, and comes to a sudden stop.
Liesel, unprepared, runs into him, and stares up at him in increasing distress.
“What can you possibly hope to accomplish?” Serge continues.
“I...” Liesel cannot think of what to say. In truth he does not know. He only knows that he must try. It is not his fault that his world has come to this, his people pitted against his government, but it will be his fault if he does nothing to resolve it.
And was that not his purpose? Was he not meant to speak for them both?
“If you'd only take me to my father,” he says. “I could speak with him.”
“It seemed clear to me that he does not wish to speak with you,” Serge counters.
“But he brought me there.”
“To keep you out of the way. At most he meant to use you.”
“You can't know that!” Liesel says.
Serge's expression does not waver. He frowns sternly, his eyes sharp and lacking in sympathy. But then he isn't one for pity. He isn't one for emotion in the face of danger either—except anger. He feels that strongly, Liesel knows. He can see it in Serge's eyes, feel it in the grip of Serge's hand on his arm. Serge is angry, furious, but beneath that Liesel thinks there is a healthy dose of fear.
Fear for Liesel. Fear of what could have happened if his father had meant to be rid of him.
There is a certain clarity to Serge's gaze, too, and Liesel knows that whatever he might say, whatever he might think, however ignorant he might be kept himself, Serge knows far more about the events of this world than Liesel ever will. Serge has always known more; he's made it his business to. It some ways it seems unfair. What is Serge but a boy from Earth grown into a man of Jupiter? What business does he have involving himself in Ganymedean politics?
“How did you know I was there?” Liesel asks and relents. He stops struggling and stares into Serge's eyes in the hopes of finding more than anger there, but it is a weighty task under the circumstances.
“The Lord Chancellor has his own spies,” Serge says.
“He sent you?”
“He informed me of your whereabouts. I came of my own accord.”
“But he knew you would come,” Liesel insists.
Serge does not agree. Neither does he deny it. He but looks at Liesel with that stern expression and that turbulent anger in his eyes. He does, however, loosen his hold just so. It not longer causes Liesel pain, and Liesel knows that Serge's temper is cooling.
They stand quietly together in the darkness, staring at one another in a silent exchange of anger, hopelessness, and that insistent yearning that has drawn them together since they were both just boys of sixteen. Around them a soft breeze rustles through the leaves, and further toward the distant city Liesel can hear another wail of a train. It sounds mournful, or perhaps he is imposing his own feelings upon it. Everything seems mournful to him now, when the whole world is in turmoil.
Finally Serge releases his arm entirely and brings his hand to Liesel's face. His rough palm feels soft and warm against Liesel's cheek. It melts Liesel's resolve, and all thoughts of returning from whence they'd come flee in the face of such gentleness.
“You look filthy,” Serge says. His voice still sounds grim, but Liesel knows better than to assume that's all there is to it.
“I've not had many chances to bathe since I was caught,” Liesel replies.
What follows seems an entirely natural progression, though it sets Liesel's heart racing and twists his stomach with ever-present shame.
They assist one another out of their clothing, Serge's piled carelessly on the ground, Liesel's folded neatly near the trunk of a tree. Then they take to the lake, Serge's hands still warm on Liesel's skin, supportive and comforting when just before they'd been harsh and demanding. The water is cool at night, but nowhere close to frigid—tepid, lukewarm, refreshing. Jupiter casts its light between the branches, reflected as a broken, rippling image upon the water's surface.
It is a beautiful evening, but Liesel feels melancholy. He drifts in the water, his mind still stuck on thoughts of his father, and the growing tension that exists between his government and his people. He does not know how to resolve it, though he believes it to be in his power to do so. It is his responsibility, he thinks; it is his duty. To allow it to continue would be the greatest of failures.
But there is Serge, with his steely gaze and his welcoming arms. Serge is warm and safe and familiar, while the rest of it seems so hopeless.
It has always been hopeless, Liesel knows; surely he is not the only one to bear the blame.
Serge takes his hand and pulls him close and Liesel follows without protest. For a moment their hands remain locked, palms pressed tight and fingers entwined—scar to scar. Then Serge releases his hold and embraces him. Liesel allows himself to be held and lifted, looks down into Serge's eyes and feels all the many emotions he rarely allows himself to feel, not because he doesn't want to but because he knows it to be forbidden.
Lust, desire. They are symbolic to his people, and to his people Liesel is symbolic of them, yet he does not always know what they mean—isn't allowed to, though over the years he has come to learn. He has felt them so infrequently, has put so much effort into repressing them that they take him by surprise whenever they rise up to conquer his senses. Serge is always the cause; he has been for many years, and Liesel expects he will continue to be for many more. Serge takes pride in that, Liesel knows; it makes him smug, gives him something to hold over Liesel's head, to taunt him with in the moments that Liesel insists upon denying he feels anything at all.
But he feels many things, and out there in the darkness, in the coolness of the lake, caught between the distant palace to the east and his childhood home to the west, Liesel allows himself to feel them all.
His hands frame Serge's face and he closes the distance between them.
Serge's eyes remain open as they kiss, boring into him as if to say “I knew all along.”
Time passes with the wind rustling through the trees and the soft lapping of the lake against the shore. Liesel is drifting, floating, his fair hair streaming along the water as Serge's hands hold him in place, solid, secure, and uncharacteristically tender.
Ganymede's body stiffened as she returned back to the present. For a moment there was a flash of light, then darkness, then the world seemed to right itself and she could see a star-strewn sky above her through the gnarled, empty branches of old, dead trees. There Jupiter lurked as always, joined by the glowing spheres of other moons. Startled, Ganymede flailed in the water and went under, but she surfaced again quickly and struggled to her feet.
The water only came to her knee at its deepest, the once great lake now little more than a murky pond. She breathed in deep lung-fulls of air, brushed wet strands of hair out of her face and hobbled out onto the barren shore, shivering—though not from the cold, for it was always temperate on Ganymede. Rather, it was from the haunting quality of her surroundings, far from the castle where the whispering voices had led her. Safe now and returning to her senses, Ganymede looked out over the pond as she worked on settling the mad beating of her heart.
She could see ghosts out in the water, familiar figures caught in an embrace, as Liesel arched back from the kiss and drifted, floating on his back in the water.
When she closed her eyes to force the memories from her mind, Ganymede could have sworn she felt it at last—lips on hers, and the bristles of a closely trimmed beard brushing against her skin.
