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Masks	By : kenaz Category: M through R > Nightrunner Series Views: 1496 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not Nightrunner. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Masks
- 1
Disclaimer: Borrowing Lynn Flewelling's characters for my own amusement.

When I was young, my mother brought me here, to Rhíminee, to sell off our spring calves at market. I must have gotten underfoot once too often, for she gave me a copper-- a princely sum then-- and sent me off to see the actors performing in the square. At once I wished to be one of them: the costumes, the grand gestures, the easy way they made people laugh and held their eyes in rapt attention. Though only three men, each played his different parts with ease. This, I thought, was magic: to be the changeling who becomes a different person just by donning a new hat, just by changing the expression on his face.

I decided at that moment, young though I was, that I would run away to Rhíminee as soon as I could. And eventually, I did, though I was never to become an actor. At least, not in the fashion I imagined then.

Being a courtesan is not such a far cry, I suppose, and Azarin's house is as entertaining as any theatre. I have as many roles here as I have patrons: confessor, nursemaid, soother of broken hearts, lost lover. I am a purveyor of fine fantasy. And when Seregil returned to me late that night, it was easy to see what role I was to play.

It was not beyond my notice that, when he arrived early in the evening, he was distracted. I did not try to draw the reason out of him, choosing instead to do what I do best... to draw other things from him. Which I did. More than once. Always he tastes heady and hot on my tongue.

Later, I deduced the reason for his distraction, or rather, I saw him: Still a boy, but handsome in his coltish way, trembling under Tirien’s predatory gaze. He was blonde, like me, though his eyes were of a different shade and held far fewer secrets than my own. Tirien must have smelled innocent blood a mile away. There's nothing he adores more than initiating the uninitiated, and he does it quite well: kindly, gently, and with extreme thoroughness. Poor Tirien! He would happily have foregone his fee to take that one upstairs! Seregil tried to seem as though he was casually watching the scene unfold, yet I know well the language his body speaks even when his tongue is silent. It might have made me laugh if something about it hadn't made me so sad for him: Seregil, the famed rakehell, was jealous!

I knew what he was about as he disentangled himself from me and went to him, and I admit, I was disappointed. Perhaps even jealous: It is no secret that he is my favorite. And why wouldn't he be? He is unsurpassed in his generosity. But more than that: his beauty is devastating, his wit as sharp as his sword, and his sword... Bilairy's balls, but he wields it expertly! I am told he once was a courtesan himself, though that was long before I came here, perhaps before I was even born. With his Aurënfaie blood, dark-haired and grey-eyed, he appears no older than I, but sometimes, in the dim firelight of my room after we have taken our pleasures and sleep seeks to hitch her little hooks in him, he looks even younger.

After politely snatching his friend from Tirien's eager clutches, Seregil's arm lingered on the boy's waist. The boy did not move. I may not be a man of letters, but I have my own variety of wisdom, and I can read a man like a scholar reads a book: The boy wanted Seregil as badly as Seregil wanted him... He simply didn't know it yet.

They left soon after, but as I said, I was not surprised when he returned late that night. I was happy to see him, even if Eirual's perfume still clung to his neck; he had begged curcease from his frustrations at more than one table, it seemed. I wanted to reassure him, to tell him what I spied in his friend’s anxious eyes, yet who can truly tell where another's love lies?

Matters of the heart are not my area of expertise, but matters of the body are, and while the one he loves lies elsewhere, Seregil's body will lie with me. There are no words between us as I lead him back up the stairs. He is taut as a bowstring and purrs like a cat when my mouth finds his neck, his nipple. His back arches under me: His need is sharp and so is my own. The aching fire between his legs has been steadily banking and when I press against him, I am almost burned by the intensity of his need. My hands have memorized his planes and angles, know how best to make him respond. It would be so easy to stretch out beside him, nuzzling the warm skin of his throat, stroking him until he cries out his release. He is beautiful when desire takes him.

But it is not gentle lovemaking he needs now. What he needs tonight is for me to wear another's face, and actor that I am, I will. I will don that mask for him, and I will whisper the lies he wants so desperately to hear. And if he does not see enough of the one he longs for in my face, if my voice has not the same tone or timbre as the one his ears strain to hear, at least my body will help him forget for a night.
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