Argent Stag, Silver Rose

When had I started to notice her in ways other than as my twin sister, my constant companion and my life-long, loyal friend? I really cannot say for sure, looking back on it. She was always there, a constant presence in my life since the very beginning. I cannot even think of a world in which she doesn't exist.

We've shared everything together: the same womb, the same traumatic expulsion from that dark, quiet, peaceful world to this one, though I made the journey before her. We've shared the same nourishment and loving presence of our mother, the same protective strength of our father, the same idyllic, bright childhood, and we also shared the same darkening of our world and the same deep sense of fear and loss when suddenly our parents were no more. We clung to one another, finding comfort in the familiar, able to go on because we had one another to rely upon.

We both were young children surrounded by adults, thrust into the roles expected of someone far older than we were. The other children around were those of the servants, and were never considered by the adults who wanted us to take on these mature roles as being not good enough to be anything more than merely acquaintances. After all, we were still the prince and princess; the servants' children were never allowed to forget that we were of far more noble blood than they.

So we remained isolated, having truly only one another to keep from feeling completely and utterly alone. In those few times we were not being coaxed, cajoled or even firmly forced into something protocol or the good of the kingdom obligated us to do, Madule and I played together as any other siblings would, sharing our toys, our imaginations and our experiences in stories and games that let us be just children.

Even so, I always knew in the depths of my heart that there would come a time we could no longer be together, that we would have to go our separate ways. Obligation and duty would see to that, in time, so I never truly did anything to hasten that. If I'm guilty of anything, it's procrastination. I came to depend so much on Madule--and she on me--that I balked at the thought of us growing up and going our own ways. Instead, I ignored it, and concentrated on whatever duty or obligation was expected of me at the moment, and jealously kept seeking out my sister's company in those moments I had to myself simply because she was always there, always a part of who I was.

When we reached our seventh birthday, the segregation began in earnest. We were "too old" now to continue sharing a room, "too old" to always remain in one another's company. Girls and boys were different, each one having a divinely assigned role in life, and it was time for us to learn those roles. Though we would both now be pages, we would have different tasks given to us. After all, as the prince, I needed to learn the ways of knighthood, honor and leadership, since I would one day rule this fair land of Aleona. Madule, however, had to learn those skills needed to be a proper chatelaine, for it would be her lot to one day oversee the household and finances of some noble's estate.

So we were given separate chambers. Mine were the royal apartments, where I would one day take a bride of noble rank, since I would be the next ruler of the kingdom. The same wave of deadly disease that swept away my parents and made my sister and I ill had also taken from this land my uncle, who was the sovereign prince before me. Madule, however, was far less than pleased with the choice of room the regents made for her. Relocated to the west wing of the palace, far from where I was to remain, it was a separation that neither one of us truly liked. Madule showed her contempt for the regents' idea by slipping from her room that night and creeping into mine. When I awoke to find her sleeping next to me, her arms wrapped around me, I could only smile in joy and hug her back. I had missed her so, feeling so utterly alone.

Night after night, my fiery sister attempted this. Those evenings when her maidservant forced her to stay in her room, I could feel Madule's sadness and frustration through the bond we have with one another, and I would lie there and whisper to her, mind-to-mind, that I would always be with her. Once the maidservant was asleep, reassured by my sister's pretense of being already in the depths of slumber, Madule would slip out and sneak along the familiar path to once more climb into bed with me.

In the end, she and the regents both won a partial victory. She was promised quarters right next to mine, if only she would swear she would sleep there instead of slipping into bed with me night after night. I remember that moment, holding her in my arms, reassuring her that everything would be all right, since I would be in just the next room over. We both needed rooms of our own, I told her; we were getting old enough to want some privacy, even from one another, but I swore that if anything happened, or if she was scared about something, she could always come next door and be with me a while. After that moment, she settled in to her quarters and didn't give the servants fits, though she did sometimes come seeking comfort when the thunderstorms or the darkness of the night frightened her. Over time, even those moments stopped as she came to appreciate just how precious privacy could be after all.

The first time, however, that I truly noticed what a beautiful woman my beloved twin was destined to blossom into was the day of my coronation. Having been orphaned at the age of five by the same illness that swept away our uncle who had sat on the Stag Throne as sovereign Prince, the great lords of Aleona ruled over the kingdom in my name because I was too young to take up the reins of government left untended. However, that changed on our thirteenth birthday, for that was when Madule and I were old enough to know right from wrong, to know how to make rational decisions and to be responsible for our actions. However, the great lords were wise enough to realize that we were still children, even at that age. Though I would be crowned as sovereign Prince of Aleona, the Council of Regents would continue to hold veto power over my decisions until I reached the age of eighteen.

The coronation . . . I remember it well, it being a high and glorious ceremony, the first time I truly realized the awe and power of the station to which I was born. I awoke that day to a flock of regents descending upon me, acting as my manservants that day and bringing with them an expensive, truly regal outfit of clothing in the highest of fashion in Aleona's heraldic colors of sable, emerald and silver. For once, I had to put up with these great lords fussing over me and dressing me as if I was the most simple-minded of children, but I understood then that my mind should be focused on the great burden about to be handed to me and not on the intricacies of how the rich clothing should be draped, fastened and laced. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I could sense that Madule was being fussed over as well, but she was far more relaxed about it. After all, she wanted to look her best that day, for she had an equally important role in the ceremony.

Perhaps it would be the best to explain something before I go further. I rule Aleona because I was born of the womb of a woman of the blood royal, and it is the blood of the mother that determines who is royal, who is noble and who is not. The ones that sit on the Stag Throne after me won't be my sons, but rather, the sons of my sister; of the two of us, she alone can pass on that divinely given distinction to the next generation. At an Aleonan coronation, this fact is quite blatantly paraded before everyone, which always makes the Church grumble. However, they, like all the rest of us, must bow to the mandate of Heaven and do as duty requires, or risk the very order of the world.

Though I was the one crowned and presented before the populace as the new ruler of Aleona, she was the one that anointed my hands and head and said the words that made my actions and thoughts sacred things for the preservation and protection of the land. She was the one that gave me the regalia of my destined office and spoke the words that told me what they stood for: the sword of state that stood for the practice of justice that was my right, the royal seal that was the ring that essentially wedded me to the land as its protector, the scepter which symbolized my role as shepherd of the people of the land, and the crown of state which was the weight of the responsibility of rulership. As I knelt before her and accepted the regalia, I felt as if I was in another world, being given divine gifts by the goddess of the land herself as her chosen consort. In that moment, my twin sister wasn't Madule, but rather Sovereignty Herself, a gorgeous girl on the edge of womanhood, the embodiment of Spring and Royalty, and I was just a humble, clumsy creature of flesh somehow found worthy of Her divine gifts. I was still in a daze of rapture when Madule took me by the hand and walked a small circle with me, stopping at each of the cardinal directions to present me to the four Quarters as the rightfully crowned prince in a youthful voice full of joy. I truly didn't start feeling like myself until after I had been seated on the Stag Throne and my beautiful sister—when had her body begun to take on the feminine curves she now had? I had always seen her as having a body almost completely like my own until that day—took up a position next to me, out of my immediate range of sight, the royal princess giving tacit, divine approval by her presence as I, in my first act of sovereign prince, called forth the members of the Noble Estate to swear homage to me as Prince. Even so, as I stood up then performed the ceremony of homage over and over there before the Stag Throne, I could feel her eyes on my back, watching me, still the girl-Goddess of Royalty. Needless to say, it is a day I will never forget, no matter how long I live.

I've always taken a protective role with my sister. If anyone deserved to be sheltered from the cruelty of the world, it was my beloved Madule. Every time anyone did anything to her to make her upset or cry, I did my best to fix the situation with whatever power I had at my disposal, such as the time her body confirmed what my observation at the coronation had been. A rude shock indeed to hear from a frightened, nervous serving girl in her mid-teens just exactly why boys are boys and girls are girls, yet it crystallized for me precisely why the adults around us had insisted that we had been getting "too old" to share rooms with one another, as well as why I was experiencing some of the things I had begun to experience–though in the cases of my wet dreams and erections I already had some idea why they were happening, just as I had some idea that my sister's bleeding that day had been a "woman's thing".

Nature was forcing us to grow up after all.

With a long sigh and a foul frame of mind, I pull shut the door to my quarters, the large suite of rooms that have been my home since I was seven. Yet again two subjects had been brought to my attention–as if I didn't already have them always weighing on my mind–by the always-helpful regents. The first one doesn't actually bother me that much, for it is merely the regents' shrill cries as they feel their allotted powers slipping away. Only one month left before my eighteenth birthday, before I celebrate the long-delayed feis and rule the kingdom independently. Of course, the great lords don't like that thought, and it's been draining to dodge and delay the various things they want to push through before they become an advisory council only that I think are ideas detrimental to my fair realm. The biggest trend I see that I'm trying to delay is the growth of the temporal power of the Church; I do not like some of the attitudes of this religion that claims to be the only true faith. How can they be the One True Faith if they hold all things female in scorn and contempt? It just isn't right or fair to hear that my twin sister is somehow less than I am simply because she's a woman. I know better than that. She's my equal, and then some. In many ways, she's better than I am, for she doesn't have to bear the stains of seeing that justice is done and the taint that comes from being a warrior trained to kill in order to defend. Knighthood has its glory, but the spilled blood also has its taint. I would rather spare my beautiful silver rose that fate, though I know she's more than capable of handling just a burden if she must.

Another sigh as I run a hand through the damp locks of my hair and cross the floor of my sitting chamber. I'd already dismissed my manservant in the bath chamber, preferring to stroll down the hall in my deep sapphire colored robe alone, my mind on the one thought that truly weighed down both mind and soul.

Madule . . . Why won't you tell me who you prefer to be married to? I know you have someone in mind, the way you just give me a secret, little smile when I ask you who you want for a husband. Yet, whenever I ask you if I should inquire into negotiations with some worthy noble I think might be the one you have in mind, you just smile even more sweetly and say, "Speak to whomever you wish about it, dear brother."

The regents are harping on me now to get her married off. "The succession must be secured." "The kingdom will be torn to pieces in chaos if you die and there's no clear heir." "She's well past her time to marry. Soon she'll be too old to attract the best matches despite her royal blood."

I have to laugh at that last one. From what the Church says, Madule would be attractive for the power alone even were she as ugly as a toad and a crone to boot. Even those of the true faith that honors Goddess as well as God would see in her the reflection of Sovereignty, no matter her outward appearance. The promise of a crown and throne is a strong motivator, indeed.

Not that my sister is either ugly or a crone. Heaven forfend! She's blossomed into the most stunningly gorgeous women I've ever seen, her body in perfect proportions, her lush curves ones that almost beg to be touched from what I can glimpse from the sideless surcoats she loves to wear. The Church calls the style the "Gates of Hell" because the sides are open to give others tantalizing glimpses of the silhouette of the feminine body underneath that is clad only in tight-fitting undertunics of contrasting colors.

I shake my head, trying to get that image and thought from my mind as I open the door and step into my bedchamber. It's not right to think of my sister in such ardent terms. Instead, I go back to the regents and their shrill cries to get her married to some worthy noble.

They've tried to go around me and negotiate what they think are appropriate contracts, but I've stopped them at every turn. Long ago, I promised my sister that I would never force her into a marriage she didn't want. We both have had such lonely childhoods that I swore I would see to it that she would always be happy. Someone has to watch over her interests, and who better for that than myself? I alone know what she likes and dislikes, for I'm the only one she's been truly open with. Just as she's the only one I trust enough to be relaxed and open with.

Besides, the thought of her marrying someone else makes something in me hate it. No one else could ever really know her as well as I do, and how will I know for sure that I won't accidentally give her to someone that sees her in all the ways she fears? I'm well aware that she's afraid of becoming nothing more than a household slave and royal broodmare, and may the heavens strike me dead if I should ever misstep that badly and give her to someone who would treat her like that.

I know I'm the best one to take care of her, but the succession demands that she be given away. I strip off my robe in frustration and disgust at the quandary I find myself in, tossing myself onto the inviting surface of my large bed. My hair, still damp from the bath, clings to the bronzed skin of my back, a cool contrast to the fire-warmed air in my room.

Were I to look in the mirror at this moment, I would see staring back at me a handsome youth with a noble bearing and regal appearance. My hair is iridescent black, the highlights a sapphire sheen, and it falls to a decadent length to brush the place on my back where my ribs end. Normally, when I'm training or otherwise engaged in public conduct, my sable locks are neatly confined at the nape of my neck into a tidy queue, but at the moment my dark mane is unbound. I'm tall, standing head and shoulders above most other men, and my body shows the signs of my long, hard hours of training to be worthy of taking on the noble estate of knighthood when I'm old enough at the age of twenty-one; well-toned and well-defined muscles ripple smoothly under the tan of my skin. My eyes are a vibrant green, as verdant as the finest of emeralds, and my lashes and brows are as dark as my mane of thick hair. Broad shoulders give a hint that I have yet to reach my full depth of chest, but even so my body seems in perfect proportion, narrowing to a trim waist and firm hips, all the hard, angular planes of an adult male.

There was once a time when Madule and I looked almost alike, with the same slim children's bodies and dramatic coloring, though the obvious difference in ourselves was all that marked us as being unlike one another. Now, however, I suspect I would find her more of a harmonious complement than something the same. I turn over in my bed, looking up to the ceiling, the breeze of cool night air making my nude form shiver despite the heat of the fire that warms my room. I like to sleep with the window open; though most would consider it something of a heresy, I know I sleep better with fresh air coming into my room instead of keeping the room sealed against whatever supposed evil influences are out there floating around in the air.

I know he can hear me. His window is open, and so is mine--for very good reason. I want him to know, now; I want him to realize that no other woman could desire him as much, or be as desirable to him . . .

I hear the window open next door and a smile comes to my face. Madule usually stays up and listens for me to retire to my room. Then the door opens to my room and I sigh. Cathal's come in to make sure I'm all set for the night. I spend some time telling my overeager manservant that I'm fine, yes I want to sleep in the nude, no I don't need anything more or help getting something on, yes, I want the window to stay open and he should be used to that request by now, no, the fire's just fine and it'll die down without it being stirred around. I actually adore Cathal–-he's the closest thing I have to an actual friend other than my dear sister, of course–-but I think he takes a perverse pleasure in seeing how much I'll complain to assert my independence. This little scene's become an almost nightly ritual for the two of us. And, in some ways, I'd be sorely disappointed if he didn't hassle me some. I'd wonder if he stopped caring about my well-being.

Once my dusky-blonde "nanny" slips away to try his luck with one of the buxom serving wenches that make up some of the palace's kitchen crew, I lie there and once more let my thoughts dwell on what to do about my beloved twin. Perhaps it's not that surprising that it takes a while for me to realize that all's not quiet over in her room.

My first thought as I hear her voice is that she’s crying. Frowning, that makes me sit up, all my protective instincts surging to full wakefulness. What’s happened? Has one of the ministers or regents said something to upset her? I swear, I’ll let the one that made her cry feel the brunt of my anger. I slip from my bed, bare feet making no sound on the carpet on the floor that flanks the large, expensive bed, ready to burst into her room–but I then pause as my mind registers the fact that those aren’t the sounds of sadness I’m hearing. My eyes wide in shock, I turn and look at the alcove with the open window in my room. They’re the sounds of pleasure. From my sister?

Like a moth drawn to the warmth and brilliance of a flame, I silently walk over to that alcove, my next thoughts on who could it be with her to pleasure her so. I must admit, a spark of ire ignites within me at the thought, that there’s someone after all that my sister holds dear enough to invite into her like that. The night breeze plays with my drying hair and chills my skin, helping control the flush of heated blood that fills me. I didn’t know until just now how aroused I could get listening to the sounds of another, but the tightness and leaden pooling of heat in my groin is proof enough of that. Bringing my will to bear against my traitorous body, I reach out with my mind to find out who it is that’s with her, who could it be that is lucky enough to disport between her legs.

I rest one knee on the padded seat there in the window alcove, leaning my weight on that leg as I balance with the other, my manhood stiffly erect in reaction to Madule’s continuing cries. Touching her mind, her ecstasy fills me, making my own ardor flare even higher in response. Normally, I would leave her to her privacy, but the question of her future marriage spurs me on. I sift through her increasingly frantic sensations, shivering in sympathetic lust, only to discover that my beloved twin is quite alone. I feel sudden heat in my cheeks as I realize the truth, that Madule is doing this to herself. It makes sense, however, that as I can tame the sudden, overwhelming urges of desire by my own touch, she could tame hers in a similar manner. But it isn’t until just now that I even thought of my beloved sister being old enough–and woman enough–to even have urges like that.

It’s something of a shock, akin to the one I got when the servant girl told us the whole story about how men and women play the game of desire with one another.

It’s also something primal, arousing, something I can’t deny no matter how wrong I know it is or how guilty I also feel. A flash of a memory flits through my mind, of that moment during my coronation where I knelt before the Goddess in the form of my sister and accepted the ring that wed me to Her.

My heart pounds in my chest, the rapid beat throbbing in my aching loins. Bowing my head, I close my eyes; my hand drifts down to curl around my proudly erect appendage. I shouldn’t feel like this, not from hearing my sister; guilt and desire war within me, but the sensation I get when I slide my hand up and down my hard shaft is pure pleasure, no matter the source. Slow at first, then faster, faster, I stroke myself, keeping rhythm with the short, sharp cries of my twin sister coming from her room over the chill, night air. Friction makes my palm and the sensitive skin of my manhood faintly burn, but I’m too driven by pure, animal need to stop. Besides, the pain is a worthy punishment for giving in to such sinful urges.

Harder, faster–my arm starts to ache with the effort of pushing myself so, but lust has me in its grip, and I’m so close to that final, blessed release. My sister screams out a name, the feel of her release blossoming in the back of my head from that psychic bond we share then spreads through my own body. My muscles lock up as I cup my free hand in front of myself and toss my head back. As the cold feel of my still-damp hair slides across my back and my soft groans fill the chilled air of my room, my narrow hips jerk forward with short, sharp motions--once, twice, three times, my hot seed spurting into my cupped hand.

A final shudder and I abruptly relax, my mind in a very pleasant haze. Lowering my head, I open my glazed eyes and look down at my hands; one remains wrapped around my now slightly flaccid member, the other is filled with the milky white fluid of my semen. Giving my manhood one final stroke, I squeeze from it what remains of my seed, then wipe the rounded tip against my soiled hand. Feeling suddenly so very cold, I turn loose of myself and walk over to the basin and pitcher of water resting on a redwood table built just for them, the fine porcelain basin sitting within the hole built for it within the top surface of the table. Picking up the matching pitcher, I pour some of the clear water into the basin, but it’s not until I’m washing my hands clean that I realize that the name my sister had shouted was my own.

No, it couldn’t be. I shake my head at that, dismissing the thought. Someone else, someone proper must be the one she imagined drove her to such pleasures; it had to be my own dirty, guilty mind that made me think she called out my name.

Just as it’s my own dirty, guilty mind that makes a sudden thought lodge in my consciousness and won’t let it go away. What does she look like now? Is she as beautiful all over as I imagine she is? And what does she look like, when she’s pleasuring herself?

Another, more violent shake of my head. Malaquin, you must be losing your mind to even think like this, I tell myself. Madule’s my sister, for Heaven’s sake. Brothers and sisters do not think of one another in such terms. I violently fling the water from my clean hands, then symbolically mangle the emerald green towel in my strong grip as I dry my hands.

Even so, I lie awake for a long time afterwards, the echoes of her cries sounding in my memory, haunting me as I try to lose myself in sleep. And as I lie there, the beginnings of an insane plan start to form. A plan that I don’t intend to act on, I tell myself, as I finally drift off to sleep . . .