The Dark Chronicles Ch. 06

Artur waited quietly, holding her hand in his. He knew when to be still, this king, and was touched by the girl's simplicity.

Miryamme looked up at him, and her eyes were green and wide, the brightest green of a high summer tree. A spray of golden freckles fleckered the tops of her cheeks, for Miryamme ran under the summering sun and was a golden child.

Artur glanced up, his eye caught by a movement across the lawn. He flicked his hand, away, away; and Maerlyn paused, then turned away.

"Is that the funny man, Maerlyn, who laughs and plays with his words and his silly songs, hey merry derry?" Miryamme swung her feet under the seat, and didn't change her voice at all. "He sees too much, with his eyes."

She said it so matter of factly, and Artur knew it true. He looked at the girl for a long, long time, sitting beside her on the bench. She looked up at him and smiled her radiant smile, and Artur began to tumble into her eyes.

Miryamme stroked the back of his hand, tracing the pattern of his veins there. After a while Artur grew tired of the repetitive touch and pulled his hand away. But he caught Miryamme's look of sad reproach, and without a fuss, gave his hand back to her. Miryamme didn't irritate him this time, just clutched two of his fingers tightly. Artur didn't see the little smile on her lips as she did so. Nor did he see her finger on her little doll's mouth, sshhh, don't speak.

Miryamme and Artur sat quietly on the bench without another word, the young king puzzling over the girl. After another short while, Miryamme got to her feet, turned to Artur, quickly kissed him on the cheek, and said, "I'm going down to the river now, to count some fishes."

She ran across the courtyard, and Artur followed her with his eyes. She was like a quick fawn in the forest, nervous and fast, her blonde tresses flying away behind her.

He wasn't sure what to do. That wasn't like him. In his practical way, if Artur the king held his hand before his face, he would always count four fingers and a thumb. But Miryamme flickered in his mind, and he never could count quite the same.

A few moments later the magickian, Maerlyn, was by his side.

"I am uncertain about Miryamme, Maer, but I cannot place my hand upon it. She seems fair simple sometimes, with her doll, but there's something else too. I can't grasp it."

"Yeay sire, I see it too. But she's not a simple maid, not like the moon faced boys in the village who sweep leaves with a brush and be happy. Miryamme knows her letters, and I teach her to write with a feather and black ash. She's a clever girl, sire, her eyes are bright and sparkle."

"Aye, 'tis true. But the doll, Maer, and her nervous rushing fingers. What is that?"

"I puzzle it too, sire. Elayne and Emmy, they say she walks in her dreaming sleep, fast asleep but walking."

Artur looked quickly at Maerlyn. "I have seen that." He paused, remembering, realising what Miryamme would have seen; his rut of his sister, her dark nakedness riding his high cock and Miryamme hearing their gasps.

"She walked in her sleep in her father's house. I carried her to her bed. Morgayne my sister sat with the girl till the morning sun rose up." Artur looked at his old friend. "She saw us, Maer, Miryamme saw us." Artur's eyes grew distant, remembering it all, not forgetting.

"Miryamme saw us, my sister and I in our wrongness, she's seen." Artur thought of the girl's doll with no eyes. Oh no. She sees too much if she see.

"She knows you too, Maerlyn, when you look at your boots. Best know that, friend, when dealing with the woman soon, when she be queen, even if she be a little girl now." Artur paused, gathering his thoughts, clearing his mind. "No matter. Tis done."

He shook his head and got to his feet. "It be what it be, Maer, and we care for Miryamme. She still be my queen, and she herself the innocent one. She must not be punished for my sister and I, Maerlyn. She did nothing but the daughter of a liege prince be."

Artur strode to his duty, and Maerlyn marvelled at the young king's ruthless simplicity. No matter.

Maerlyn sat on the bench a while longer. He remembered when he first saw the little maid Miryamme, at the ceremony of the knife in the rock, hiding behind her father's leg.

What will that do to an innocent head, wondered Maerlyn, seeing all that? Seeing her father and the new king, their big pricks firm, and Artur's seed all spurting on the ground? And the white and black scuttle of Morgayne climbing down from the rock, rubbing her brother's spill on her belly and Maerlyn's own seed smeared to her asshole? And to see Artur and his own sister make the two-backed beast?

Maerlyn's own cock throbbed as it always did whenever he thought of Morgayne, her spell permanently imprinted on his soul, and his ankle itched.

If those visions did that to him, a grown man, what would they do to an innocent girl?

* * * *

"Come to me Artur, let me touch you, touch you, your softest, softest skin."

Six years had passed since Miryamme first came to Camlann, and now she was a tall and slender girl, almost too thin, nervous like a bird. She wore long gowns, full brocade and lace, all tied about her tiny waist with a velvet band. Miryamme's hair was golden blonde, full waves of it gleaming in the summer sun, long falling down her back.

"Let me touch you, touch you..." There was a distant dream in her voice, as if something echoed in her head.

Miryamme had come to her age six months before, and she and Artur were slowly learning intimacy in slow and gentle ways. Artur was older and knew women, including his sister the Red Morgayne who bore his first children; so he was content to wait for Miryamme to find her way, to discover him in her own time.

Elayne was like a sister to her, and Emmelyne told them both the ways of boys and men. Elayne found the prods and pricks of the guard and watch to her taste, while Emmelyne found her way with more serious men. So Miryamme chattered and listened and knew what to do, and slowly began to wonder about it. Her restless fingers still stroked her doll's hair at night, and she'd dressed the doll in little gowns like her own, and golden straw was the colour of its hair, like her own.

Miryamme's glory of hair was spread across Artur's bare shoulder and in waves upon their pillow. She lay with her head upon his chest, soothed by the strong steady lull of his heart, and her fingers ran silently over his skin. She'd learned through the years to calm her restless touch, to gentle it and flutter it like a butterfly, but she would still dance long moments on Artur's skin, especially when she ran up from the meadow, after dancing hours in the sun.

Miryamme would lie there exhausted, and slowly come back to her senses.

"What have you been doing, Miryamme?" Artur asked.

"Dancing, dancing in the meadow all day," Miryamme replied. "I'm sleepy now, can I sleep?"

And slowly, slowly, all summer long, Artur learned what happened in Miryamme's dreams.

He found she slept best curled in front of him, her back against his belly, her bottom pressed back to his groin. Miryamme was still a virgin queen, sshhh, not yet, not yet, but she'd found a way to please her king, while she waited. While she slept, while she dreamed.

Her sleeping drifting walk stopped when Artur was there; but she'd walk again, walk again, when he was gone away. Elayne would guide Miryamme back to her bed, climbing in beside the girl to sooth her, to still her restless hands.

Miryamme delighted in watching Artur stir in the morning, seeing the way he rose out of his sleep. Miryamme was more restless than he ever was, and would often startle awake and quickly look around to assure herself where she was. She'd rest her head on Artur's chest, holding one hand still by gripping it with the other, to stop her nervous flutter. She'd pull a cover back and watch the soft coil of his cock, see how the foreskin covered its head, and watch a tiny pulse beat in the long vein that ran along his resting shaft.

Miryamme watched, and felt a slight shift in the depth of his breathing, and knew he was awake. She didn't say anything, but kept watching the base of Artur's belly, looking for a first movement. He placed his hand on the back of her head, his eyes still closed, but knowing where she lay, what she looked at.

There it was, her slow reward. Miryamme watched spellbound as the coil of Artur's cock slowly thickened and straightened, pulled erect and aroused by the tug of her gaze until his beautiful shaft was hard and straight, the purple red head pushing towards her from its cowl of skin. Miryamme's eyes widened as she saw him thicken, the long veins running along the length of his shaft, and she watched a tiny blue pulse. Later, she would feel that little pulse with her lips, and taste his heat, but now, just her eyes saw his rise.

With a small bite of her teeth on her lip, a subconscious concentration, Miryamme reached down for Artur's shaft and gripped it in her hand, feeling its heat. His chest rose with a quick intake of breath, and his hand tightened its grip on her head. Yes, that touch, touch more.

She watched her own hand as if in a dream, as she explored the length of him, felt the heat of his shaft and the coolness of his tightening balls. Miryamme slid her head down to lie on the base of Artur's belly, and pressed the hot heat of his cock to her cheek.

"I see it, I see it, I feel it, I feel it," she whispered. "It's not yours. Not any more, not any more, it's not yours."

Miryamme placed the tip of her finger over the slit on the cock head and pressed firmly. The cock rose to her pressure. "It's mine, it's mine, I want it, I want it, it's not yours."

She placed her warm mouth over the end of Artur's cock and held it there, not sucking, not licking, just feeling its heat on her lips, her tongue. Artur's hand held Miryamme's head as she began to suck and lick, his fingers gripping as she heated him. Her fingers pressed and squeezed his high balls like a settling cat, over and over. His heartbeat quickened and his breath came faster.

She urged his cock up in her hands, her cheeks sucking inwards with the force of her suck, and she knew Artur was nearing his climax, his cock swelling hotter and the liquid taste of him wetting her tongue. Miryamme's stroke with her hand was long and steady, faster now, pulling him up to his peak. She heard a low moan in the back of his throat, and that was always the sign.

To stop. To grip him hard, stop her suck, stop her stroke. Miryamme felt him quiver, and she quickly pulled his high risen balls down away from his groin, and the pull on his testes pulled Artur back from his spill. He took two deep breaths as she held him firm and still. His cock pumped twice, and his body shuddered with pleasure, but she'd stopped his climax. This time.

"Ah, Miryamme, you stop, yet I don't want you to stop. Wickedness." His voice was affectionate, her wickedness and stillness exactly what he wanted, she'd urge him up again when she was ready.

Miryamme looked at Artur's lean body stretched on the bed, his thickness a beautiful length against his gut, a jewel of fluid beading from the little slit on the head. She lapped her tongue to it, and her lips were the same softness as the plum coloured tip of his cock. Miryamme pushed herself away from his body, sitting up on the bed. She turned to her lord, lying there, and smiled her softest smile.

"Artur, am I to be your queen, to sit by your side on a throne? Am I to be your queen?"

"Yes, my princess, by my side. Why do you ask, do you doubt we will marry?"

"Oh no, I don't doubt it." She smiled, her lovely innocent smile. "The laughing man said it will be." She looked directly at Artur. "The laughing man knows too much, with his eyes."

He does that, thought Artur, he certainly does. But then Artur was distracted.

Miryamme began to stroke Artur once more, and she leaned over him so her small breasts dropped, and he took them into his hands to feel their soft weight. Her golden hair fell like a veil, and hid her. She leaned over him some more so his cock pressed up against her breasts and slid between her little mounds. Her nipples were long and hard, and she pressed the head of his cock to one nub. Her hands stroked, and because he'd come so close before, it was not long before Artur's head tossed restlessly from side to side, and his hand reached down for her hip.

"She mustn't have it, she mustn't, it's mine." Miryamme's words were a soft chant, and she spoke to the same rhythm as the stroke of her hand, pulling him closer to his end, his final surge. "See, on the rock, she crawls upon the rock." Her hand stroked faster, faster.

Artur's eyes were closed, and his mouth opened with his quick breath. Miryamne looked at his silent face as he lay beneath her, and she stroked him, twisting his cock in her hands, her eyes never leaving his face.

"She won't have you, Artur, never again, she won't have you ever again, you're mine." Faster, her voice a whisper still. "I'm not your sister, not your sister." As soon as Miryamme uttered the words 'sister' Artur's cock throbbed, and the long jet of his seed roped across her chest, and Miryamme pulled it all up out of him, pulling up the last surge, and it spread across her breasts.

She held him close against her as his flesh softened. In his guilt Artur moved his hand from Miryamme's thigh and didn't touch her; he couldn't, not after he'd come, thinking of his sister.

Miryamme rubbed her hands in circles on her chest, over her breasts and around her belly, rubbing the hot cream of him into her skin. She had the softest, smoothest skin, her fingers slid and circled, rubbing in his cream, rubbing it all in to her porcelain skin.

When she was done and his spill was all gone, Miryamme lay beside Artur, her head lying on his chest.

"Hold me close, Artur, hold me close."

Artur remembered his vow to Miryamme when she was younger,she's innocent, she's done no wrong, and did as she asked. How could he not?

"It's all right, Artur, it's all right." She looked up at him, and kissed his mouth. "You've known your sister, I saw it with my eyes, with my eyes. But I'll stay your virgin queen, your virgin queen."

Miryamme kissed him again. And again. She loved him. "And every day, your seed will fall on my skin, my skin. It's mine, all mine." Miryamme's skin was soft, so very, very soft, and her fingers rubbed in circles.

Miryamme stroked his cheek, and smiled her little smile.

Her doll had no eyes. It might see too much, if it had eyes.

* * * *

A ceremony.

I've always liked a ceremony, especially one where my vanity gives me a leading role, where I can primp myself up in new robes. If I get them made in sufficient quality they can last me several years. The worn bedraggled train of them, after a while, lends a certain learned air, as if I have been hermiting alone in a forest or a wood. Rocks bashed together in a stream more like, with mud from the bank rubbed in. Rub a dub.

Every court requires a circumstance from time to time, and Artur's Camlann had run several years without one. The arrival of his children didn't quite count, due to that event being more of a whisper than a gossip, nobody quite prepared to look the king in the eye. Even I admired my own boots.

And of course, the magnificent Morgayne with her disdain shut even the loosest tongue right up. In the normal course of events that tongue would be mine, but when it came to the Red Morgayne even I knew when to shut my own mouth.

And my neck. I hang for her, every day, by her hair, her silken black hair. It's surprisingly soft, when I touch it.

But the Lady Miryamme, now there's a pretty thing with a gentle smile, but a strangeness behind her eyes. Quite mad I suspected, her poor eyes having seen far too much; and I think she said the same about me. She and Artur reached an understanding of sorts; Miryamme danced in the meadow and walked by the river's edge quite a lot, but at least she didn't fall in. She carried her doll, even then.

"Miryamme is of age, Maer, I need to make the marriage and promise a legitimate heir. The land needs that of me, as my duty to the river and tree. It's why you and Nym Nymue made me, so for the Goddess I do it."

Artur strolled along by my side, casually, and the court could see our business being done; the land in safe hands, his and mine, king and courtier. Artur's hands safe, certainly; mine I was not so sure. I looked at mine hands and didn't know if they held the corn or spilled the corn, whether my fingers were turned up or turned down. I put a hand in my pocket and found a small pebble, and wondered when I'd put it there.

"Yeay sire. But your sister Morgayne, she to invite?"

"Of course she's invite, Maer. She's my sister Gayne, don't ever forget. Besides, she has no animosity to the girl. 'Twas her suggestion first."

"Ah lord, yes, I forget that."

"You forget nothing, wizard, my sister least of all."

His sister least of all.

* * * *

"Did you forget me, heart, and desert me in my distant castle?"

The Red Morgayne, as always, was silent to my side and I never heard her there. My blood thickened immediate, and my damned ankle itched. Would her trance ever leave me? I thought it not, but didn't want it to, either.

"Lady, you did not summons me; I thought it natural that you might, if only to torment and play with me."

"Maerlyn, no." She touched my shoulder. "I'm kinder now, I mothered two little babes through toddle and talk, and they have taught me patience. You think me bad, at your expense? It's not true." Her slow fingers traced through the air, they dragged warm down my arm and my skin prickled; the flesh of a goose would be smoother.

"You should have visited, once at least. Come, make up for it. Walk with me to see the little ones, my bastard prince and princess fair."

I had not thought Morgayne the mothering kind, yet there she stood between her children and caressed them both with her affection, standing with her hands on their shoulders and soft love in her eyes.

Mordant her son and the king's first heir, with his bruised red cheek and red-stained skin, stood black eyed and proudful by his mother's side, silently watching me watch him. I turned away first, for I could see he was his mother's son.

"Is this my father's wit, Mother, who looks at me with his eyes?"

"Be kind, Mordant. Maer Maerlyn's hands were the first ever to touch your skin, when he took you from my belly. I've told you that."

"Show me your hands, nurse, that I know them."

I glanced at his mother. "Your son, then, Lady. A disrespectful sod, you should curb him." I spoke my tongue and Morgayne just smiled.

"The wizard not like me?" Mordant pouted, but it was a prissy pout. This child needed attention, not wanted it.

"Ah, child, you not like yourself, 'tis plain."

Mordant sneered, but a child of seven has limited words, and needs learn new ones fast. He would be a pointless thing, until the day he wasn't. And then his small festering vile would split and spill open, like a pox. A watching thing, this child, to be watched.

By his dark side, little Lilith was her light. 'Twas clear she was her father's daughter, Artur's fairness on her skin, and his eyes, blue as the high sky in summer. She stood a gazing bright, whilst her brother skulked dark beside her.

"Mother Caitlynn has told me of you, Maer Maerlyn. Verily, show me the hands that held me first, that took me from my mother."

I bent before Lilith and placed myself to her level. She took my gnarled hands into her little ones, and she traced the long lines on my palm with her finger. She held a serious look on her face as she turned my left hand over and ran the same finger over the veins of my blood on the back of my hand. She did the same with my right hand.