Lyer & Aluraios | On Lyer
He was studying the commisioned silver bracelet he'd been working on for the last week when I glanced up from putting the final intricate stitches into my newest lounging robe. Placing the deep ruby material quietly on the bed, I rolled over onto my stomach, resting my head on my crossed arms as I just looked at him, fixing the image of my firelit lover in my mind.
Ebony hair cascaded over one cheek, shadowing one side of his face like a shadow-weaver's wing, feathering softly over the pale skin, sticking slightly from the slight dampness of his skin. Even in the high ponytail, it still brushed his hip, the firelight giving the strands a gilding of gold that stoked among them as he moved to heat the metal once more. It looks like a black waterfall, but when you wrap your fingers in it, the silk turns courser, denser, each strand a distict presence, thick and supple as they slip around your hand.
The smoke wrapped around him, cat-like in its sensuality, softening the harshness of the miniture forge that framed his slim figure. The tools of his trade are neatly arranged around him, but even now I wouldn't like to guess what half of them are used for, other than maybe torture. He peered at the silver again, critical as always, manipulating it with skilled hands, practise turning the long fingers into darting blurs.
He pushed the long horsetail over his shoulder, brushing soot onto his cheek, before leaning over the flames again, revealing his face fully to my appreciative eyes. A flush of concentration sheened across the fire-bronzed skin. I don't know what it is, even now, that stops his features just short of seeming entirely effeminate, some trick of the regal jawline, or smooth brow, whatever it is, it ensures he's only mistaken for female half the time we're out in public. A constant source of amused irritation for us both. The atmosphere, with the windows opening onto the dark night, the firelight from candles and the forge, and the smoke and shade, softened his features further, turning him into a ethereal elemental vision before me. I wondered for a moment if he'd fade away to a dream if I reached out to touch him, and then smiled wryly at the knowledge I'd probably just get an irritated glare, and told to go away, with a soft kiss to temper the tone.
However, it's his eyes, the clear bronze gaze aged with time, that really capture your attention when you see him. The soul that looks out of the golden shadows belies his physical apparent age. Those piercing eyes were focused entirely on their task, although I know he was perfectly aware of me watching him, and the silver twisting within his fingers reflected within them, flashing stars into the sun. It's hard to describe everything I could see in his eyes then, and even now, the fierce hunter's pride, the darkness, and his natural insticts, swirled with gentle patience, intelligence, and, when he looks my way, a love which I can't vocalise my return of, words would be insufficent.
With a sudden smile, the not-quite-full lips curving upwards in satisfaction, he nodded once decisively, causing the hair to once again fall across my view, and placed the completed bracelet to one side, no words were needed to say he was finally happy with his work. He quickly rearranged his tools into order, cleaning the ones that required it, and sliding them into their leather pouch.
Rinsing his hands off in the basin of water we kept nearby for emergencies, those powerful eyes turned in my direction, glittering through the darkness of the sable shadows, reminding me of the sunset through the tree tops in my homeland. He moves so gracefully, the grace which I had to practise to achieve comes naturally to him. The soft grey lounging robe, worn from use at the forge, fell around him as he stood, still keeping the hair across his face, allowing me to read his intention in the slightly raised curved eyebrow and dilating pupils, surrounded by darkening copper. I've never needed more of a hint than that.
That's one of my favourite memories of the man I fell in love with all those years ago. The sight of him wrapped in smoke and shadows is one I still haven't tired of, even though I have dozens more to cherish as much. Smoke and shadows, both need a form of light to exist, maybe it's a metaphor for our relationship, but as I have a familiar black plait teasing across my chest, and warm lips dropping kisses over my face, whispering loving words against my skin, I'm not going to try and figure it out at this moment. I've got another memory to make.
© Clare Selley 2009
Return to Lyer and Aluraios