The Traveler

The Traveler It was a dark and stormy night. In this case, it actually was dark and stormy, and one lone traveler was lost in the squall. A torn and tattered cloak had been drawn about his soaked figure, offering little protection from the driving rain. The wind howled and blasted fiercely, nearing dragging the meager cloth from the traveler’s numb fingers and tugging the fabric out in a flapping trail behind. The road he walked upon had long since turned to mud, clinging to his every step, so thick that it nearly tore his heavy boots from his feet. Every thread of cloth on his body was soaked through with rainwater and sweat, and the traveler was chilled to the marrow of his bones. Several times he fell with a dirty splash to the drenched earth, and before long he had accumulated a layer of grime that caked over his body. He could hardly see more than five feet ahead of him, and navigated by sheer tenacity, stricken practically blind by the deluge. Presently, the path split into two forks; one traveled upwards and to the left, leading into darkness, while the other ran downwards to the right, into more darkness. Both paths led to the unknown, and neither offered comfort to the miserable traveler. The leftwards path was the one he chose to stumble down; he hardly cared which road he wandered along, so long as it led to someplace dry. The road became rocky as it climbed up, and the traveler tripped more often on the rough stones and rubble strewn in his path. The path took a sharp curve along a stony ridge, though the man did not see that the road had turned; he continued straight and fell, sliding down in a shower of pebbles and dirt until he came to a halt at the bottom. The slide had been harsh on his arm, leaving it cut, bruised, and bleeding, and the tumble had finally snatched the tattered cloak out of his grip. It had been flung to heaven-knewwhere, and the traveler was left without any protection from the elements. The trek back up was difficult, and he slid several more times as the waterweakened earth shifted beneath his scratched hands. Eventually he succeeded in returning to the path, and continued grimly following. There was no indication of a slackening in the tempest; there was, perhaps, an increase in ferocity, and the wind seemed to scream along its path, possibly intent on tearing the traveler apart. The journey might have taken minutes or hours. He was not sure, and was only aware of an increased numbness spreading throughout his chilled limbs, and a terrible weariness that threatened to overcome him. Knowing that to stop was to die, he kept trudging forwards through mire and mud, standing every time he fell and ignoring the wet earth that clung to his shivering form. The traveler lifted his head and saw before him a castle rising up out of the gale, a sanctuary amid a destructive storm. As fast as his frozen and unfeeling limbs could carry him, the traveler approached the heavy door and pounded on it with his fist. His voice was hoarse as he cried out for admittance, and the winds nearly tore his words to pieces. After a few minutes of this, he despaired of ever entering. The door remained firmly closed, and the rain driving against his back showed no signs of respite. The traveler leaned against the unyielding, weathered wood of the entry, breathing some tired sigh of defeat. He was going to freeze to death in this storm. He had chosen the wrong path to tread. The other… the other led to the city he had been adventuring to. Now he could

not trust his own feet to guide him back down, nor could he ever hope to rediscover that fork in the road. He was going to die. The realization was as invariable as his heartbeat. Then, the heavy door swung slowly open and the traveler pitched forwards, stumbling in and falling to his knees. Behind him, the entrance slammed shut with a reverberating crash. After that, there was silence, except for the steady drip-drip of dirty water that fell from his drenched form. For a while he knelt there, shaking and trying to recover strength. A little pool of mud-brown water had collected around him, mildly crimson-tinted on the left side from his battered arm. Once a few moments had passed, the traveler climbed unsteadily to his feet, and looked around him. He was in some sort of foyer. The ceilings vaulted high above him, rising up to a peak that was obscured by gloom. The light of the candles and bracketed torches could not reach such an altitude. Some distance in front of him a staircase climbed upwards to a higher floor, its silver-grey stone worked into fantastic and somehow unsettling shapes. On either side of the stairs, down on the bottom floor, there were doors leading to unknown rooms. The traveler realized that he was staining the rich, crimson carpeting with the filthy water that dropped from him and the mud that clung to his boots. The traveler left a trial of dirt and water as he wandered across the room, over to one of those doors near the steps. It opened silently, as though on well-oiled hinges, even though there seemed to be some weight of ages on this place. Inside was a long and brightly lit hall, heated by a large and roaring fire in a huge, ornate fireplace. Before that warming hearth there was something so lavish the traveler thought it might be merely a mirage. A heavy table of some dark wood was there, with a smooth crimson cloth embroidered with golden thread blanketing it. A feast was laid out, as though for a king or nobleman, containing many a rare and tempting dish. Exotic fruits, broiled fowl, bread sitting warm and light next to mounds of yellow butter… all that and things the traveler could not even name, all laid out as though waiting for him. He approached cautiously, as though fearing someone would storm out and demand reason for his intrusion. There wasn’t a soul to be found, however, and so he came over, placing his grimy hands on the cloth. There was a golden bowl near his hands, filled to overflowing with fruit; smooth, red apples, dark blackberries, succulent raspberries… and bunches of grapes, large and red like garnets. Surely… surely a little of this feast could not be missed? His hand plucked a perfect grape from the bunch and brought it to his lips. The flavor when he bit down was like heaven, sweet with just a hint of tartness. He had hardly swallowed when a wave of dizziness overcame him, and he realized that there had been poison in that fruit. His hands gripped the edge of the table as the traveler tried desperately to stay upright; he found that he was not growing nauseous, but was merely becoming increasingly exhausted, and soon found himself plunging into unconsciousness. The traveler awoke some time later, blinking his eyes heavily against guttering candlelight. After the sleepiness had passed, he realized that he was in a different room of the castle… and he was lying on a soft bed, slightly dirtied now from his messy hair and mud-covered skin. He noticed with some languid surprise that his one arm was whole again. A more pressing fact he found was that the traveler had lost his clothing. He started at this discovery, sitting up rigidly despite a screaming pain in his body. A quick, slightly panicked search in the room around him revealed none of his clothes,

though he saw that a door to his left was partway open. Inside that... there was a room tiled in black marble. In the middle of the dark, glossy room there was a bath of flawless white stone, already filled up with hot water. The traveler, now curious, stood from the bed and made his way over, pushing open the door. A pitcher and bowl stood on a dark table, and a bench of a similar wood was pressed against a wall, with fresh, neatly-folded clothes set upon it. How… curious this was. This bath had certainly been drawn for him, as he was the only living soul in the entire castle the traveler knew of. …Of course, there had to be some other occupant, or else who could have moved him and fixed the bathtub and placed the white, soft bath towel beside it? Setting those questions aside, the traveler went over to the edge of the tub and dipped a hand into the water to test its warmth. It was deliciously hot, and he found himself stepping in a moment later. The traveler, tall though he was, sank into a steamy heat up to his neck. His head rested back against the marble rim of the tub as the heat penetrated into his sore limbs, easing the tension out of them. The traveler wasn’t sure how long he soaked, as there was no method of telling time… but it was quite a while, though the water never grew any colder. Once he was clean and more relaxed, the traveler stepped out of the tub and wrapped the towel around his waist. Now that the caked grime and dirt was washed away, it could be seen that the traveler was no unappealing man with his steel-grey eyes and noble features. His hair, sable in color and somewhat long, lay in messy, clinging tendrils. The traveler had the uneasy sensation of being watched as he donned the clothes. When he went back into the bedroom, he found that the linens, previously soiled from the mud on his body, were all fresh and changed. Someone had even set a tray down on the table, with a goblet of mulled wine and, perhaps ironically, a golden bowl of fruit. It nearly overflowed with grapes the color of garnets. The traveler took up the goblet and sat on the edge of the bed, sipping at the hot liquid carefully. It was curiously warming, and a comforting heat spread outward from his chest, driving away any last remnants of chill that may have lingered in his bones. After eating a little of the fruit left for him, the traveler went to explore this castle. It took him two days to almost fully peruse it all. There was one place that he had yet to see… whatever lay behind a heavy wrought-iron door in a lower floor still eluded him. The traveler stood before it, musing over the strange sense of foreboding that emanated from the gateway and trying to discern a way to open it. There was no lock, and thus no key, but yet the thing was tightly sealed. No amount of tugging or cajoling could move it. He pressed a hand against the metal surface, feeling for some sort of latch or lever on its surface that might be of service. In finding none, he hit it with his fist, frustrated by its persistence. A deep sound like the striking of a bell rang out, causing the traveler to freeze until the dismal noise had passed. Then, almost ponderously, the heavy door swung open. A set of stairs was revealed, winding downwards in a tight spiral into darkness. Lifting a candle from one of the candelabra, the traveler stepped across the threshold and started down the staircase. Behind him, the door slammed shut with a fatal crash, and when the man pushed back against it, he found that it was resolutely fixed. There was no way to go but forwards, and that was where he went.

When he reached the end of the staircase, the traveler thought he must’ve been far below the surface of the earth. He stepped into a chamber, strangely warm, filled with some strange sense of age, and peered around him in the guttering candlelight. The floors were of cold, unyielding stone, as were the walls, and from those unforgiving walls chains and shackles dangled. Either they were rusted from years of neglect or there was… something rather unpleasant upon the metal. There was another door across the room, and the traveler opened it and continued through. These must have been dungeons once upon a time, he thought. The next area was further proof, as it was divided into barred-off cages and cells. Inside the firmly locked spaces were more chains, along with rags and the occasional bleached-white bone. With a little shiver, the traveler pressed on through. This was no place to linger. He passed through another door, and had a choice of left or right in the next room. The doors on either side were identical, both of imposing wrought iron, and the traveler decided on a whim to go through the left. It swung open on silent hinges, and swung closed just as quietly. Once inside, his eyes took a few moments to become accustomed to the slightly deeper gloom. The décor of this place was far different from the previous rooms; it looked hospitable, and may even have been lived in during the past decade. The stone floor was as chilling as in the other rooms, but softened a little by a thick and plush crimson rug that lay in the middle of it. There were all the furnishings of a bedroom, with a desk of some dark wood carved in intricate patterns, a few yellowed and deteriorating manuscripts still lingering on its polished surface; a tall, tapered ivory candle flickered in a golden holder near the papers, dripping pearly wax down, down its length and onto the desk. An ancient quill had almost fallen to dust a few inches away. A dresser of drawers made of the same dark wood stood not far from the desk, perhaps four feet to the right of it; the same intricate and somehow unsettling pattern drifted across its glossy surface as well. The traveler padded over to inspect the thing, opening the top drawer curiously. Inside was all manner of peculiar things. A whip that appeared to be freshly oiled, straps and bonds and collars, and many other strange devices. Perhaps what dominated the curious boudoir was the bed. Its frame was that dark wood, more richly decorated than the others, carved with the shape of fantastic figures. A velvet spread in a dark and heavy red lay across the soft feather mattress, piled up with pillows of varying sizes, all in either red or gold. A canopy hung from the four incredibly formed posts, with sheets of nearly translucent silk dangling in loose gold and crimson layers to hazily provide some privacy. The traveler pushed aside those hanging curtains, and slid onto the high bed. Something clattered in the velvety spread, and he moved further into the midst of the soft mattress to find the source of the noise. His hands wandered through the folds and layers until they met something hard and metallic, and pulled shackles and chains out from the bedspread. The traveler stared at the strange contraption in his hands, turning them over to examine fully. Made of some silvery metal, the things were finely crafted and currently opened, though there was a keyhole in them, and thus could be locked. He tugged at the delicate chain, and found it to be surprisingly tough; it looped securely over the two front bedposts.

Something shadowy was arising from the velvet of the bed, sliding up and materializing behind the unknowing traveler; a moment later he found arms slipping around him, strange and soft and strong. He startled at the unexpected touch, but the figure behind him had too firm a grip for him to escape from. The traveler felt a puff of hot breath somewhere near his ear, and stiffened at the contact. A low and velvety laugh brushed by, while a slender hand slid its way underneath the loose, dark shirt he wore. He tried to pull away from that hand, which, somehow, seemed to incite heat in his skin with the barest touch. There was nowhere to move to, however, as he was captured quite securely in an almost inhumanly strong hold. That smooth, shadowy voice may have spoken again; the traveler thought he heard ‘Do you like my chains?’ though he may have been mistaken. Either way, he was roughly pushed down onto the bed, the figure straddling across him and pinning his wrists to the mattress with one hand. The other, the traveler saw in almost a panic, had reached to grab one shackle, which was snapped about one wrist. At that point he started to struggle, uplifting his hips in an attempt to unseat this strange figure. However, his other wrist was soon securely locked in the metal device, and the traveler found to his dismay that he was invariably bound to that bed. The next moments were like something from a dark dream. The figure hovered above him, his hands indenting the mattress near the traveler’s bound arms. Silvery hair glimmered and flashed in the wavering candlelight, obscuring some of his features with a shimmering veil of fine locks. Eyes the color of orient jade pierced through the silvery curtain, securing the traveler to the bed as surely as the shackles that clung to his wrists. Then that face descended, his mouth seizing the traveler’s and laying claim to it. What surprised the man most of all was that he did not resist; his lips parted willingly, easily, to allow the invading tongue admittance. Slim and dexterous hands pulled at the fabric of his shirt, tearing it asunder and exposing his lean and pale torso. Those same hands drifted across the planes of his chest, and every inch of skin touched seemed to ignite beneath errant fingertips. When the figure pulled back, the traveler’s lips followed after until he reached the ends of his chains. Some wicked smirk played across the figure’s features, and the corners of those piercing jade-green eyes lifted up with the expression. A hand pushed him back to the mattress, while the figure’s silvery head fell again, now taking a dark nipple into a hot mouth. The dusky nub was nipped and worried with sharp teeth while the traveler jerked with each bit of abuse, and then soothed with the laving of a slick and skillful tongue. Some low moan had worked its way out of his chest, increasing in volume as the figure turned sharp attentions to the other nub. Soon both were firm, and the figure’s wicked tongue was tracing little circles around the mistreated nipple. The slender hands had not been idle at this time, but were making short work of the traveler’s loose trousers, sliding them over his thin hips and then tossing them aside like some distasteful article. The figure grasped the hem of his own loose garment, pulling it up and over his head to reveal, bit by bit, the lean and smooth torso of a beautiful man. He slid up onto the traveler, running his hands along his firm abdomen, ghosting softly across muscled thighs, noting that the man spread his legs without prompting, as though in invitation. The silver-haired figure smiled and then leaned over to nip at the sensitive skin of his inner thighs. A little jerk accompanied the bites, making his smile widen a little further.

Those long, toned legs were pushed open a little wider, exposing his heavy, erect length to the figure’s jade eyes. The silvery head dipped down again, this time to lave his pink tongue over the head of the traveler’s erection. The reaction was noted and committed to memory—the way every muscle tensed, the small arch of his back and the strangled noise in his pale throat, all taken notice of. With an almost feral grin, the figure took the tip into his mouth, suckling gently as the traveler writhed, and then, in careful increments, took the entire length into velvet heat. The traveler moaned aloud, the chains of his shackles rattling as he tugged against the restraints. Slender fingers dug into his hips, preventing him from thrusting upwards into the delicious warmth. By then, he had forgotten everything except the burning hands and skillful mouth and all that accompanied them. There was only this, the slick movement of a tongue over his throbbing length, the tight coil in the pit of his stomach. The traveler did not remember where he was, or why he had come there, or even his own name… but none of it mattered, so long as those hands and that mouth did as they were. Then, the traveler felt cool air rushing in to replace the heated mouth, and some small whimper fell from his lips. Hardly a moment later, however, the silver-haired figure pressed his own against them, his tongue slipping into the supine man’s mouth, carrying some new subtle taste upon it. Again the chains clattered as he fought them, while teeth nipped along the pale column of his neck; soft lips attached themselves onto a spot near his jaw, sucking until a sharp stab affirmed the new formation of a bruise. This process was repeated in other places—another on his neck, on his shoulder, his chest. Bites were scattered throughout, leaving their own marks on his fair skin. The silver-haired figure, then, began to ease the long, toned legs up, pushing them down near the traveler’s shoulders. One hand was run lightly over the back of his thigh, caressing it mildly before drifting down to the thick muscle of his backside. The dense flesh was kneaded at briefly, almost crudely, as the traveler shifted to allow easier access. The hand was only pulled away so that the first two fingers could be embraced in the figure’s slick mouth, making a show of suckling on them, laving them with a wicked pink tongue. The dark-haired traveler could only watch in silent throbbing agony as this was done, aching with an insatiable desire. Once well lubricated, the fingers were slid slowly out of that mouth before one traced a slick trail around the traveler’s entrance. Pressing in, the digit slipped past the tight ring of muscle, pushing into velvety heat with a mild burn. A loud and echoing cry fell from his lips as his hips bucked, and the figure had to press them back down to the bed. Another digit was added, eliciting another keen outcry, the traveler’s arms straining against the bounds that held them. His hair, dark and tousled, clung to the sheen of sweat that gleamed on his toned body. When those slick fingers were taken away, the traveler moaned softly out of a desperate want to be filled, to have something inside of him. He was rewarded with something far more substantial than fingers against his entrance. The word ‘please’ was mouthed voicelessly, as he didn’t have enough presence of mind to speak. Through hazy vision he saw the figure smile wickedly, and then felt himself stretch to accommodate the other’s length. The figure pulled out until only the head was left inside, and then slammed forwards. The traveler slid upwards on the bed a little from the impact, a deep moan on his lips despite the pain that accompanied the motion. The figure kept thrusting, driving himself deep into his tight body, hissing sharply at the sensations that came.

This man on the bed, dark-haired and writhing, was so tight, so hot…each inward drive was ecstasy, intense and disorienting. A few less-than-pleasured cries left the supine man, as the pleasure he received was sharp and burning. Even so, he arched into the thrusts, forcing the figure deeper into him with each movement. His legs wrapped around the other’s waist, tensing and urging for more. Lips descended to his neck, marring the skin with red marks that would soon darken. The traveler let out a deep moan as something thick and heated filled him, his back arching in a pale crescent over the deep crimson spread. His mind dissolved into an exquisite ecstasy as sensations beyond his description coursed through his veins in a frenzy. For a time he knew nothing but the pounding of his own heart and the din of his heavy breathing; once the rapture passed and faded, weariness replaced it. Even as he felt the figure slide out of his body, the traveler was collapsing back against the soft mattress, the tensed muscles of his arms releasing from tiredness. His legs dropped, slowly, off of the slender waist and onto the covers, unable to hold themselves in any other position. It was as though he had been drained of energy, as though it had been siphoned off to another vessel. The figure, meanwhile, had a pinkish flush to his otherwise pale cheeks, and licked a red tongue across equally crimson lips. He slipped off of the traveler, watching with almost feline curiosity as the man lay bound, struggling to remain awake. It was a losing battle, and his dark head soon tilted gently to one side, his pale cheek pressed against a dark velvet pillow. The figure reached over with one slim hand to brush aside a few locks of tousled sable hair, something akin to laughter in his eyes. When the traveler awoke, he was in his bedroom, on the same bed he had awoken on before. He blinked at the guttering light that came from the candles, and sat up tentatively, cautiously, and wondered what had become of his clothing. What he remembered… it must have been nothing more than a dream. A dark dream and nothing more substantial. Nothing more. Nothing more. There was a burning pain that radiated up into his back, making his face twist in a slight grimace. He convinced himself that it was from the storm he had wandered in, and from the fall he had taken over the ridge. In standing, he caught a glance of something strange on one of his pale thighs; upon closer inspection, the traveler found a tracery of purple-blue bruises. It was harder for him to persuade himself that his memories were only of a dream. A bath had again been drawn for him, and the traveler settled into the warm heat of it to soak away some of the pain. He was… terribly tired, somehow drained from that… whatever it had been. Dream or reality or nightmare, it seemed to have taken something from him. By the time he emerged from the steaming water, however, the man had convinced himself that it had not happened. He was even going to prove it. Once he was dried and dressed, the traveler seized a candle and went with a purpose back down to the iron-clad dungeon door. Ignoring pain, he descended the stairs again and strode through the stone rooms, paying scant regard to the contents of them, until he arrived at the one from his memory. It was as it had been, with nothing he could see out of place. Impatient, the traveler went through another door, searching almost in anger for another soul in that

place. He dared the rooms to reveal someone as a fool would tempt Fate. He found something far stranger than other soul. The traveler found statues. There was a long hall of marble statues, leaning out of the walls in fantastic positions. Their bodies seemed to be one with the walls, wrists and torsos and arms seeming to disappear into the stone, as though they were embraced by it, not placed against or carved out of. Now curious, the traveler approached them; they were strangely beautiful, and were so masterfully worked that they almost appeared to be alive. For a moment, the traveler almost believed he saw them breathing. “Do you see something you like?” The traveler startled and turned, dropping his candle to the stone floor where it rolled away, casting a pool of stuttering yellow light at his feet. The shadowy figure behind him was the same as the one before; the same person that he had convinced himself was only a figment. Here he was, silver-haired and slender as before, appearing exactly the same as when… The figure approached, walking with smooth and sensuous steps while the darkhaired man was rooted firmly to the spot. Once close enough, the figure pressed against his chest, trailing a slender hand across his pale cheek. The traveler thought to flinch away, but his body somehow refused to obey. “Who are you?” Something in that silky voice was impossible to resist, and he found himself saying Valentine before he could even think to stop. The figure’s red lips curved into a becoming smile, situated so close that the traveler could feel soft breath against his own. Like some instinctual notion, unlooked-for and uncontrolled, there was some heated emotion welling in his chest. It made him want to press his lips against the ones so close to him, it made him want to feel what he had felt the night before. And the figure knew it, counted on it. His soft, crimson lips pressed to the traveler’s pale ones, the hand on his fair cheek pulling him deeper. The dark-haired wanderer had no will to resist, no defense against this form of attack, and simply surrendered to his desires. It seemed like hardly a moment before the velvety covers were underneath his back again, his body ravaged a second time by sensations to intense for him to comprehend. That first encounter with this silver-haired figure had been etched into his memory like carvings in stone; perhaps a little hazy on the edges, but clear as glass otherwise. This… this he could hardly perceive even as it happened, his senses overwhelmed and flooded by a commotion of feeling. The traveler was not even sure when it began or ended, even as his limbs fell heavily to the feather mattress from exhaustion, and the figure retreated from his aching body. He felt as though he could sleep for a century. The figure above him was grinning widely, a little bubble of laughter breaking on his lips. Silver hair clung to his forehead, a few errant strands across his flushed cheeks and trapped on his red lips. He was alive, vital, possessing effusive vivacity at that moment. And the man on the bed… was pale, drained, sleeping in a way that the dead seldom achieve. With a little laughter still sliding forth, he pulled the pale traveler into his arms. The figure’s slender frame belied his true strength, though it seemed strange that he lifted so tall a man from the bed with apparently so little effort. The dark head

lolled back as he was carried, every limb limp and listless and unnaturally pale, almost to the hue of flawless marble. Only the soft rise and fall of his chest revealed that he still lived. He was brought into the statues’ hall, where the figure carried him past many stony figures, until he came to a place that was yet unfilled by any beautiful effigy. The traveler was lifted up, his back pressed against the cold stone. Then, as though the wall were water, his toned form slid in, embraced by an almost liquid substance that hardened back into rock once he was placed inside. The traveler’s hands were captured above his head, disappearing at the wrists into the stone with only the tips of slim fingers jutting beyond; the rest of his toned chest was exposed, until his hips delved back beneath the stone. A small portion of thigh and knees were visible, until the stone embraced everything else beneath the living rock. Then, as the silver-haired figure watched, his pale skin, so marble-like in hue, did change into the smooth stone, the subtle transition from fair flesh to flawless white rock difficult to see except by those who had seen it often. The traveler had become one more beautiful sculpture among a hall of beautiful sculptures, almost appearing alive from the perfection of his form. Every muscle was as ideally defined as it had been when flesh, every stony strand of hair as fine as it was before. The silver-haired figure stepped up, pressing his lips against the perfect marble lips of the traveler, almost as in a final farewell. The tips of his fingers brushed over the smoothness of one cheek. The traveler was still warm.