Date: July 14, 1999
Place: Helena's Room - House Jove - Palladium
Cast: Craft, Helena, Thorn
Scene: Had Margaret Mitchell tried her hand at MUSHing, she might have played scenes like this, for Thorn is an excellent Rhett to Helena's fiery Scarlett, with Craft playing the role of the honorable Ashley Wilkes (though with a someewhat bloodthirstier temper). Amid politics, intrigue, and rising tension between the races, Haven sports its fair share of romance, too. This log warrants a PG-13 "rating."

Helena's Room - House Jove - Palladium:
      Columns rise gracefully on either side of the entryway of Helena's private chambers. Three circular steps of the same pale marble lead down into the living room, an area partially covered with thick dark blue carpet supporting a mass of large pillows in the same color. The other half closer to the entrance is reserved for a few long sofa's of a deep shade of indigo, the wood worked up with golden ivy. A large circular low table presents the visitor with a bowl of fresh fruit and a decanter with white wine.
      At the far end of the chamber two marble steps lead up to a dais, almost completely hidden by bordeau red silk hanging between two columns, separating the sleeping area from the rest of the room. The walls here are painted in a shade of midnight blue, as is the high ceiling overhead, decorated with a fresco in gold paint, depicting an image of a romantic afternoon in Civitas Dei. On the dais rests a pale wooden bed wide enough for three, its gilded edges worked in a pattern of ivy and roses.
      More to the right another separation, a circular stone wall with an open doorway, allowing a glimpse of a round pool large enough to host a small party. Around the water small benches are placed plus a massage table in the only corner. This private bathroom is painted in a light blue, golden images giving the area a luxurious, calming feel.
      Before the only two high windows of the room, secured so they can only be opened from inside, stands a small writing desk and an elegant chair pushed before it. In front of the left window slowly spins a small mobile made up from several hollow tubes, making a handsome sound when wind causes the tubes to collide. All over the chamber stand large plants in graceful decorated pots, their wide leaves adding freshness and life to these quarters.

A cold winter's evening: a fire sheds warmth and light through the room, casting shadows upon the wall that dance their dance born of passion, the final motions of a swansong whose only words consist of the crackles and pops which erupt from their fuel. Outside even the birds have resigned themselves to cuddling closely with each other in their sleep. A perfect, lazy evening...

...broken by the soft, urgent padding of bare feet outside one particular Jovian princess's door (sandals create too much noise against marble flooring, don't you know). The door cracks, and a muffled, "Hey! I hope you're dressed," is tossed through the opening, followed shortly after by a man's body slipping into the room, a brilliant smile beaming towards the other occupant of the room.

Sitting at the small desk, Helena was busying herself with trying to write a letter and trying to prevent tears from falling onto the parchment. Startled, she sits back, ink blotting the paper when the quill drops. Eyes puffy and red swivel around to see who so boldly dares to enter her chambers. An outraged smile instantly curves her lips as she rises, whispering her exclamation, "Craft! Somebody will see you!"

"You're probably right..." he pauses, feigning concern, "but it was snowing outside, and well, I figured you should get your mind off of him, so I decided to stop by." Craft is quick to slip closer to the fire, picking his feet to warm them. Cold marble and cold air make even the hardiest Praetor's feet chilly.

A quiet sob from where she stands, blue gaze firmly locked onto the one she so very dearly would like to see as her suitor. "I hope they did not see you..." she faintly grins, "That way we could have a little time together. Craft, he came to see me yesterday..."

Craft smiles, "Well, seeing as how I'm already here, and the guards aren't pounding on the door yet, I think I'll take my chances. Might as well take advantage of the time we've got; what if I got caught on the way out?" A wry grin follows, and then a simple shrug as he addresses her concerns, "he's your suitor, Lena, what did you expect?"

"You can leave through the window, when you go. It will be safer that way," Helena ponders out loud over the problem. But she shakes her head and shivers, wrapping her arms around her. Yet the cold is outside, the chambers here nice and warm. "I hate him," she confesses with a passion. "Did you know what he said? He only wanted an heir and couldn't care less who I took into my bed after that. Can you believe such insolence?!"

Craft smirks a bit at the woman's paraphrasing. "Interesting man. He must be feeling his mortality and the need to carry on his legacy. It's not surprising." If there is anything else on the man's mind, he holds it back well.

Stunned by his words, Helena walks towards the fire, needing the heat if anything else. Stretching her hands to the dancing flames, she whispers incredulously, "You are defending him? How can you do that!" White and golden wings arch forward, cloaking her in feathers against the chill running through her bones. "Or do you wish to have him come between any chance we have to be together?" So softly spoken, so frightened...

Craft chuckles softly at this, "No, Lena, I am not defending him; I know you too well -- you would never allow something like that to happen." He moves towards her, pressing up against her back lightly, his arms slipping around her waist.

With another soft sniff, Helena allows herself to lean back, her head turning so her cheek rests against his chest. "It frightens me, my love," she murmurs, placing her hands over his and closing her eyes. "I have no say in it..."

Craft closes his eyes and sighs softly, "you feel so helpless, but you're not," he soothes. "But if he even dares to touch you, I'll kill him and bring his head to your father." Another moment, and the man smiles darkly, "of course, that might spoil any plans for us being together, but I think we can rule out that possibility anyway."

Turning in his embrace, there is a wicked little smile playing with her lips as she cranes her neck to look up. A smile maybe he remembers from times long past, when the feelings they had for one another were quite a bit colder. "I know only one way to have him gone as suitor, my love, and I do not think he would like it overly much, but at least it will be better than his head on a platter..."

Craft arches an eyebrow...

A low chuckle weaves through the air to his ears and Helena leans back, trusting his arms will not unlock their embrace. It takes her a little while, but finally she looks up at Craft with her face set into the most innocent expression she can manage. "Tell me, my love, of a few things that you loathe in other people, what is it that makes you shiver with horror."

Craft furrows his brow yet once again. "I do not loathe anything in other people, Lena," he explains, "were I easy to affect in that sort of way, I suppose 'not having something they do' would be an answer. Why do you ask?"

"All right," Helena smiles wide before continuing, twinkles playing evil tricks with her eyes, "What would be your opinion about a woman who, every time you met her, was dressed in rags despite her wealth, whose breath would stink of garlic, whose hair is a mess, who giggles insanely at everything you'd say and who would scream at every little bug she would encounter? Oh, and add horrible salty meals every time you came to have dinner... What would you think of such a woman, my darling Craft?"

Craft smiles a bit amusedly, but shakes his head. "I do not think it would work, dear."

The smile around Helena's lips dissipates as water in the burning sun. "It would not?" Beaten, her arms fall lifeless to her sides and she bends her head in desperation. "If that would not work, what would? There must be something I can do? I do not want him, Craft, there is only one I have set my heart on."

A fingertip finds itself placed on Helena's nose tenderly and beyond it, past the cute nose, the ex-Praetor smiles. "You," he taps the nose ever so softly, "should not act as if courtship is a simple fact of days." Another light tap, punctuating the next word, again: "You," another smile, "have all the time in the world, but," a third tap, "you, should remember that your family is, despite its... unsavory... ways, very prominent and respected. Do not disrespect them any more than you have to in public. And... finally," this time the man's lips plant a quick peck on the woman's nose, "don't forget that I love you. Everything will be all right."

"What will you do?" Despite his assurances and kind words, there is a tension growing in her shoulders, in her wings falling over his arms at her back. "Craft, he really, truly scares me..."

A sad sort of smile graces Craft's face for a moment before he replies, "I don't know Lena, I don't know."

A knock comes from outside the door.

"Promise you will not kill him? For if you do that, we could never be together, they would throw you in prison all over again and I do not think I could take that..." the Jovian pleads, blue eyes wide and urgent, lips slightly parted as her fingers push against his shoulders to state that she is very serious about this. She stands on the tips of her toes to brush her lips softly over his cheek. "promise it me..." A knock disrupts her thoughts and disgruntled, she calls out past Craft, "Go away, I am sleeping!" Her alto sounds slightly panicked.

A female servant softly calls as she begins to turn the knob of the door, "Domina? Deus Alexandrian is here to see you. He... He brought you these?" And she begins to open the door, pushing inward a bouquet of roses.

Craft glances to the door, grins, winks, and nods. Glance to the window, another grin, a quick move to pull her close, a kiss on the lips, nowhere near 'long enough,' but a kiss nonetheless. And the Empyrean is through the window, leaping outwards, wings catching the air harshly to carry him aloft.

The woman is completely taken by surprise as Craft kisses her, and it takes her a moment to respond, but she does so with a passion. And next moment he is gone, leaving her to close the windows behind him, staring out into the snow quickly hiding his form.

The room remains quiet for a long time, but suddenly there is the sound of windows opening, and a draft pulls the door open. In the room, Helena is closing a window and stares out to the snow falling for a while longer. She looks rather flushed, cheeks red, lips a bit swollen, slightly parted.

Thorn stands without the chamber, several feet back, his hands clasped behind his back. The slave is surprised when the door is pulled open by the air and she hesitates in the doorway as she looks at Helena. A furrow bisects the girl's brow, but she continues to hold on to the lush bouquet of roses. The glittering eyes of the Deus beyond miss nothing of Helena's appearance, that steely gaze drifting over the set of her mouth in a lazy perusal.

A deep breath and a last longing look outside. Slowly, the Jovian turns, seemingly composed and frowns at the girl and the presence behind her. The roses she pays no notice to. All she has to growl is, "It's late." Casually, she walks through the room, rearranging a few items and appearing very busy doing so.

"It is," agrees Thorn's baritone as he takes a step closer to the door. The slave carries the roses inward and places them upon a table, somewhat nervously. They've been meticulously arranged within a delicate vase. "Isn't it a bit cold for you to have your window open, Domina?" inquires Thorn in a lazy, arrogant drawl. There's just enough of a hint in his voice to show that he has some suspicions... especially when his gaze falls to Helena's mouth once again.

A contemptuous glare at the roses as the young Jovian immediately sucks in her bottom lip, suckling it, hiding it from his view. When she feels her cheeks blush anew, she turns away, walking farther into the chamber. "It... the fire got the room too warm... What do you want?" One day, she will learn how to stop her wings from showing her emotions, but for now, they flex, twitch. She nears the flames and stretches her hands to warm them, not noticing that the motion is in contradiction with her earlier explanation.

"You." A simple answer for a simple question. "But that is not why I am here." Thorn's voice holds more than a touch of arrogant amusement. He continues to stand just outside of Helena's door, hands clasped behind his back. With the way that his wings are tucked back, his handicap is far less noticeable. "I brought a gift for you," he explains in a low murmur as his hands begin to unclasp and his arms loosen. "And I came to make a request."

There is hope in the blue Jovian eyes when Helena turns her back to the fire and nears the door. "You came to withdraw your wish to court?" Her voice sounds a little too happy. "I am glad you finally came to your senses, Dominus," she grins, now in a most polite manner, "Everyone can see you and I would never make a good match."

The slave lingers, uncomfortably, absently adjusting the glossy, leathery blooms in the vase. "I fear that I'm going to disappoint you, Domina Jove. That isn't it at all," Thorn chuckles as he draws a jewelry case from behind his back. "I've brought you this and I've come to ask you to accompany me to dinner three nights hence. Please... do not answer right away. First, I would like for you see what I've brought for you."

"You think I have not enough jewelry to suit me?!" Helena smirks at the closed box, making no move to even reach for it. She is disappointed, but has no wish for him to know this. Also, she conveniently forgets she almost never wears any of the pieces she got from her mother when she was younger. "What is this, another of your so unsubtle insults!" Placing her hands at her hips, she leans forward and glares at the poor slave, hissing to her, "Get out. I have a few things to say to this fool and I would not like for your ears to hear."

Thorn dryly murmurs to the slave as she slips closer to him, "I dare say not all of the Jovians have the Domina's lovely manners. It would be difficult to fathom that they all behave as beautifully as she does, hmm?"

Despite herself, the slave girl lets out a little giggle, lifting a hand immediately to her mouth to stifle any further laughter lest she feel the wrath of Helena herself. The girl remains in the atrium with Thorn, finding some reason to dust the leaves of a nearby plant. The man still stands two feet outside of Helena's room, jewelry case in hand.

Bristling with anger, Helena steps forward, pulling the man in if he allows her to do so. "Get in," she growls at him, with a foot finding the door and kicking it hard. It closes with an explosion of sound. "Now you will listen to me. You and I, it will never happen. I met with Deus Jove yesterday, told him all about your little act in the gardens, so you can just go home and forget you ever walked into this chamber, do you understand? For me, there is only one and I will have him as my husband, not you with your... your little schemes to produce your heir!"

Thorn lets his gaze fall to Helena's mouth while she bristles at him and it is that portion of her face that he studies with quiet patience while she rails at him. The heat of that gaze is almost palpable, slithering over her mouth like a caress. He waits, standing there with the patience of one of the stone gods in the Cella until she is done. "Are you finished?" he mildly inquires with a languidly lifted eyebrow. His stance is casual, insufferably so.

"No, I am not finished!" the small woman yells at him. If she keeps this up, the slave in the atrium would not even have to press her ear against the door to understand Helena word for word. "I don't like you, I hate you, with all your smirks and all your semi-witty remarks. Look at you, not even able to find a proper bleedin' healer! I would not even take you for a husband for the sole reason that you are a damned cripple!" Yet, under his stare, she walks back, slowly, small step for small step. Like a kitten finding itself cornered and blazing to try and scare the enemy off.

Had she said anything other than that, she might have been safe. The moment the word 'cripple' is out of her mouth, Thorn has crossed the distance to her in what seems like only three large strides, and his unburdened hand reaches out to snatch her close to him by grasping the back of her head and threading his fingers into her hair. With a look that suddenly blazes with anger, his hitherto iron control slips as he pulls her toward him and his mouth crushes over hers as it claims her in a savage, heated kiss.

"Don't you d...!" She panics, all color leaving her cheeks as he storms towards her. She doesn't even have time to raise her hands to push him away, or at least try to. She finds her breath taken by the hard mouth seeking and finding her trembling lips. She tries to scream, but finds the sound muffled, not even loud enough to reach the door. And then she does raise her hands, places them at the sides of his chest and simply claws, feeling her nails dig into skin through his garments, the same garments that prevent any damage. Kicking and clawing, she struggles to break free.

Thorn, however, doesn't let her. Despite her struggles, he wraps his other arm about her to draw her body to his, crushing her torso against him so that she has no room to struggle. His mouth takes from her, ravaging the inside of her mouth until, suddenly, the storm abates and he is giving as well as taking. That savage pressure eases only to be replaced with a more controlled passion, a touch of tenderness... and exquisite mastery. His tongue strokes the inside of her mouth, gliding into her sweetness to give pleasure as well as urge her to surrender.

The clawing subsides as soon as Helena finds it is of no use. Her screams lessen to a mere whimper, still panicked as she remembers that afternoon in the gardens. Freezing, she stands rigid in his hold, trying to think of anything else but this kiss so she won't make the same mistake she made back then. But again, his mouth softens, not conquering, but teasing, inviting, even though the demand for surrender is still the same. The Jovian closes her eyes and shivers visibly as her hands finds his shoulders to cling to, her frame not stiff, but curving against him with a will entirely its own.

The man lets the jewelry case slip to the rug, forgotten, and his long-fingered hand curves down over Helena's backside, pulling her hips against him. She can feel his arousal through his chiton, the hard leanness of his frame, the strength in his arms. And still, he asks that she surrender with the cajoling of his lips and tongue, the lowering brush of his fingers as his hand curves further down her buttocks. Thorn smells as entirely male as he feels, his warmth and his scent filling her nostrils as he holds her so tightly to him.

Helena can almost see her determination crumble before her very eyes, the kiss caressing her lips, his tongue too cajoling, the touch of the embrace too longed for, and his scent... Soft fingers form a velvet caress to the back of his neck, fingers unused to hard work of any kind. As her back arches farther, hips sliding against hips, hard chest pressed against soft curves, those elegant white-and-gold wings curve forward to form an embrace all their own out of habit. A grunt escapes her throat when she finally kisses back, no longer hiding the fact that she is not as pure and innocent as she might appear, her tongue teasing and ordering, teeth nibbling. But then she opens her eyes, eyes that look straight at snow falling behind high windows.

Thorn releases her so quickly that she might fall, if not reflexive enough to catch herself. Stepping back, his chest expands a little too quickly to completely disguise the effect that the kiss had upon him as well. However, he schools his face into a cool, detached expression and his lips curve into a sly, superior smirk. "You wouldn't take me for a husband, but you would take me, wouldn't you, Helena?" asks that baritone in an arrogant drawl. Thorn gestures to the jewel case that lies at an angle upon the rug. "There is your gift. I thought to bring you a little springtime in the midst of winter." He studies her face for a moment and then turns as if to take his leave of the room.

With a heart beating so much quicker than normal, Helena's bosom rises and falls heavily within the confines of her dress as she unsteadily stumbles back, hands flailing about to find something solid. She laughs out loud in frustration as soon she has enough air in her lungs to do so. Blazing eyes send invisible currents of fire to the man as she bites at him, "Take you? Hah! Not in your dreams, fool. I make it a point of never sleeping with anything that does not possess two pure, unblemished wings." Hoping that the words will sting as she meant them to, she picks up the case and throws it at his feet. "Who needs charity when you can get the real thing?" she smiles at him, so sweetly, chin defiantly raised into the air.

The case breaks open, sending its contents skittering about the floor. A delicate bracelet of tiny butterflies formed of abalone shell and blue topaz slides across the floor to catch upon the leg of a table. A larger, matching butterfly shoulder pin designed to clasp the silk of a toga to a woman's shoulder tumbles out as well, its mate remaining fastened in the case. The pin glitters where it lands against the edge of the rug, its wings formed of shimmering abalone, its body formed of amethyst and the eyes of the butterfly made of round, pale blue topaz. A pair of tiny butterfly earrings are also fastened within the case.

Thorn watches the jewelry scatter across the floor as his steely eyes shutter. When he lifts his chin so that gaze might fix upon the Jovian, it is as if he's caught her in a wave of heat. She can almost feel his control thin and threaten to snap and it is visible in his face. The man's expression in that moment is imminently dangerous.

A rush of adrenaline speeds through the Jovian's blood, her anger, outrage giving her a feeling of invincibility and triumphantly she laughs at him, a grin that might easily be called evil in a less handsome face curving her lips. "You dog," she insults him, her alto vibrant as it is hard, "You really think you can sway me with something like that? This really is a matter of beauty meets beast, is it not? Go, go back to your beloved Lycenae, go back where you belong, you hold no place among us."

"If that is so," says Thorn in an even tone, "Then why has the Emperor given me room within the Hall of Sky for my office? Why has your family given me permission to court you? And why would you have let me take you mere moments ago had I not ended the matter?" A wheat-hued brow twitches as he studies her. With more dignity and regality than an emperor, Thorn turns for the door, pausing only to say, "I shall see you three nights hence for dinner. Be ready before mid-evening."

"I do not think so." The alto is dead calm when it reaches the departing man. "I find myself sick at the thought alone. In fact, you will find me sick every time you come calling, appalled by the mere sight of you, so do not expect me to bide by your wishes." Quiet steps take her to the broken case and looking down on it, she smirks, prodding the pin with her toes. "And take your pathetic little excuse for a gift with you, I do not want it. I do not want you. Maybe you think it was you who took me, but are you really so arrogant as to think that?" Another contemptuous laugh. "Fool, you really know nothing about me."

There is a *click* as Thorn touches the latch of the door and then another *click* as he releases it. His wings are slightly opened and arched, tension in them that his body does not otherwise betray. Without turning around, he says, very softly, "I would not pursue such an avenue, Domina. Recall that I saw you hanging upon that disreputable former Tribune in the baths. I saw what he said to you and I heard you distinctly tell him that you loved him. I'm certain that your family would be far from pleased to learn such a thing. It would be a true shame were they to find out and forbid you any contact with him."

A moment of silence shows the sudden unease freezing the woman. Thankful that he does not turn, so she has time to compose her face again, she chuckles, a sad, reproachful tinkling of her alto. "Do not be so daft to think they would believe you. My family knows of the close bond between myself and him, they know of the importance of our friendship. Tell them we are more than that and you will find yourself ridiculed all over Haven, I will make sure of that. Tell them and find yourself unable to show your face in any public area. Or maybe I am mistaken there. I am positive your head would look quite lovely on a stick." She began talking lightheartedly, as if discussing the weather, but ends in tones confident and calm. Were he to turn around, he'd find her with arms casually folded, a smirk on her lips, tossing back her hair.

Thorn does turn around, his smile colder than the winter outside, but his eyes full of hot, enraged promises. "They would believe me. I am High Judicator of Haven. And beyond even that reputable testimony, there were witnesses, Domina Jove. You yourself are daft if you think that I cannot do you harm in this way. Your family knows you to be restless. They are concerned for you. Enough that they might rush a marriage in order to cover up your possible mistakes in bad judgment. Do not force me to use my good reputation to sully yours."

The small Jovian does not even look to see if the step she takes over the broken case does not damage any of the jewelry. But nothing crunches underfoot as she makes her way to Thorn in a straight, unhurried line. She has to crane her neck to look up, but seems little bothered by it. Pulling back her shoulders, she indicates she is ready for any fight he is willing to get them both in. Only a few handspans apart they stand now and the clouds boiling over her eyes are easily seen while she stares up, trying to freeze him with a single look. "You will not even think of it." It is an order, simple and pure. "Go out there, I am positive you will find a poor little rich girl in our or another House who is just dying to marry a one-winged Judicator with nothing to show for but the borrowed clothes on his back."

A chuckle escapes the man and quite suddenly he seems truly amused. Eyes of steel hold a glint of humor as they peruse Helena's stance and her face. "You are quite truly beautiful, you know," he murmurs as his hand absently reaches for the door. "Even when you are under the delusion that you can order me about. I'm touched that you find yourself so desperate that you are reduced to thinking you can forbid me from doing something. It means that my threat is real enough to frighten you. Continue to be frightened, Helena. Oh..." Thorn pauses as he turns the door's handle to open it a fraction, "I hope you won't mind if I suggest to the Deus that he place an extra guard upon your window. It seems many of Haven's winged beauties have been in danger of late. It wouldn't do for something ill to befall my future wife as well." Lips curving faintly, Thorn then opens the door and moves to depart through it.

She doesn't need to walk back far to pick up the vase with the roses he had so kindly delivered. With a grunted, "Future wife this!" she aims and throws the vase at his departing wings with all the force she can summon. The vase misses most of its target, smashing into the doorframe, rendering it to a thousand tiny pieces raining down on Thorn's back. A thousand shards together with the roses dropping on his hair, his wings, the water drenching his toga and body. Something else crashes to the open door, a small statue, one not given by him but thrown with the same passion. This one damages only the door itself, landing in broken parts but harmless on the tiles.

Calmly, and without gaining any speed, Thorn keeps walking at that same steady pace. To anyone behind him, he seems completely unfazed by Helena's little tantrum, but the slave who stands in the Atrium looking wide-eyed at the domina's room has a very good view of Thorn's wide and very satisfied grin.

FIN  

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