Continuing from what I posted, yesterday...and I'm now using Kirill Dowidoff, a Russian model, as Dmitriy's image.
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The trees were even thicker, here, but then we came upon a clearing and there was the brook. It was wide and rushing down the side of a hill over a tumble of stones into a small pool that was so clean and clear, you could see through to its bed. Little silt, flowing reeds and moss, the water not still but hurrying between some exposed rock to dance the rest of the way down, as if playing. Probably the same stream in which I'd bathed Helffing.
Franz smiled at seeing it. He sat on a large rock and I helped him remove his boots, then he carefully waded into the pool, leading Grünnald. The water came up to his hips, soaking his trousers. He slowly, painfully pulled off his shirt to reveal a torso sculpted by the gods. Trim where it counted, full where it mattered. I could see the entry of a bullet in his left shoulder but no exit. It was still in him. That would need to be taken care of or it would fester.
He dipped his shirt into the water then pressed it to the wound on his head. Seeing bloody water trail down his taut body through the waves of soft down over his chest made me so very determined to have him agree to join me.
Choose to.
Gabrielle had mentioned this was a necessity for the ultimate level of attachment to happen. So I wanted him to want me, and the thought took a near obsessive hold of me.
Finally, he wet the shirt, again, to daub at the animal's wound as I quickly found some yarrow at the edge of the clearing and worked the flowers into a bit of mud, to make a poultice. He accepted it and applied it to the horse's injury. Grünnald remained quiet and easy, throughout.
Finally, he led the horse out of the pool and tethered him to a tree. He began to graze, and that made Franz smile.
"Thank you," he said to me. "I think he will be well, now."
By the heavens, the way his trousers clung to his thighs and calves. And around his ass. And outlined the bulge in his crotch. I found it difficult to concentrate on words, but I managed to say, "Your turn."
He collapsed to where he was cross-legged and slightly hunched over. "Are you? You a surgeon?"
"I know enough medicine to help you."
"I'm so very tired," he murmured, rocking back and forth in near delirium.
I didn't think. I quickly shifted him to an area of grass, next to the rushing brook, and lay him flat, his arms crossed over his belly. His trousers clinging to his hips and thighs and calves, enhancing their perfect beauty. His skin still hinted at warmth and shades of gold, despite the near darkness. His chest so full and rich, with nipples in perfect harmony. His crotch even more inviting. I was almost frozen by the sudden pounding need within me, as if I hadn't fed or taken pleasure in months instead of just two hours prior. I knew that if I had seen him before Helffing, he would be in the process of turning, now, and I would be bringing the anger of the Oiym down on me.
Only once before had I experienced anything even close to this rush of want and need and desire and joy. It was when my pack and I had followed Napoleon's march to Russia, feasting like the followers of Bacchus might have on his rag-tag army. French men can be beautiful, but to have called this crowd of snarling peasants even human would have been a compliment. So whatever pleasures were needed by my lads, we took with each other, after feeding.
We had reached the outskirts of Moscow, and I had sensed Gabrielle was already there, with her court. Of course. She was far more opportunistic and ruthless than I. Always had been. Had always disliked me, for some reason, and I had no idea why. Nor any interest in knowing. I simply chose not to suffer her disdain, so we had not crossed paths since we both had been called before the Oiym, more than seven hundred years earlier.
But then one evening I was atop a roof watching the panicked population, far below. Terrified little rabbits fearing the worst so racing out into the snow-covered land. Not yet knowing, as I did, that Napoleon's forces were spent. They would barely be able to work up the energy to loot, let alone do any raping or ravaging. It was almost pathetic.
I wasn't hungry, having fed on a Russian guardsman who had shot three people for no reason. Something else that happens far too regularly in war. I was merely curious. Idle about it. Taken by the beauty of a light snow drifting down in contrast to darkened buildings. So I didn't notice Gabrielle was behind me until she cooed, "Greetings, baby brother."
I hate it when she calls me that.
I spun to face her...and gasped at seeing an impossibly good-looking man standing next to her. The epitome of tall, dark and handsome. Exquisitely proportioned. Eyes as deep and dark as the ocean. And secretly Jewish, to my surprise, because he was of the same lineage as Gabrielle and myself.
Of course she noticed my interest, the little bitch. That was why she brought him.
"I take it you approve of my new companion?" Her voice dripping with condescension. And also letting me quickly know he was not mine to have. "This is Dmitriy." She turned and almost sneered at him, saying, in French, "And this is Léonidès, my baby brother."
Baby brother. She was twenty-two years old when Prior Pious turned her. I was almost twenty-three. But to be fair, I wasn't turned until six years after her.
Dmitriy had clicked his heels and bowed, showing he was very well-bred and, without question, was more than pleased to see me.
Which had brought a lovely sneer to Gabrielle's lips.
"Yes, as I thought," she'd half-growled.
I had never bothered trying to follow my sister's shifts in emotion, so I'd ignored the comment and offered him as glorious a smile as I could, saying in French, "You're one of us."
"He's one of you," Gabrielle had snapped.
Dmitriy had cast her cool glance and added, "But only recently."
It seemed Gabrielle had sensed a fellow Blood Angel in the midst of the city's chaos, the night before my pack and I had arrived, and allowed him to seduce her. She had turned him as he ejaculated inside her. That bound him to her, forever. Which would have been well and good except for one small problem.
His true nature was aimed towards men.
He'd been sleeping with women to help himself deny this. Once he was turned, all lies were cast aside, and he could not sleep with her, again.
"I tried," Dmitriy had said, "but could not rise to the occasion, no matter how many lies I told myself."
"It was a mistake on my part," Gabrielle had admitted, albeit reluctantly. "I was so positive he was the one for me, I neglected to follow the full ritual. Which would have prevented the situation."
"What ritual?" I'd asked.
"You truly are ill-informed." Spoken in our Norman dialect, and with more than a little exasperation.
That was ill-mannered to do in front of Dmitriy since he could not have understood it. Our father had been insistent that, for example, when a Saxon was around we spoke only in the Saxon English. It was inclusive, and rude not to do.
"I know all I need to know," I'd snapped back.
Dmitriy had caught the anger between us and carefully made certain Gabrielle did not see his little smirk. A smirk that looked perfect on his perfect face.
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BTW, this is how I now picture Léonidès. It works better, overall.
And Kirill's Jewish.
The closest I've come to an image for Gabrielle is Eliza Dushku, when she was in Buffy, the Vampire Slayer. Seemed appropriate, but I can't use it so...
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