It’s QueerBlogWed! Being his own unique vessel of queerness, Christopher returns to us in the next part of ‘Waiting for Rebirth’…
“Are you all right?” I asked, as I moved towards him. What a stupid question. Of course he wasn’t all right.
Damian raised his head at the sound of my voice. He released himself from his tight embrace, some of the heartbreak departing from his face.
“I’ll be better in a moment,” he said, taking a long, shuddering breath. “It’s not like I’m not used to this.” He let out a low, hushed laugh. “I’m not entirely sure what I was hoping to do, or prove.”
His vulnerability drew me closer, exciting a hunger I’d thought I’d never feel again. My Damian. My creator. I couldn’t exist without him. Why wasn’t he happy? What was he expecting?
I touched his hand, feeling him shiver. An image shuddered through my own brain of angry, frustrated helplessness.
“Why are you here?” Damian demanded. Young and impatient, confined in starched leather, he’d looked up at the beautiful, golden creature who stalked his aunt’s halls. Tear drops hung from Duessa’s ceiling, male teardrops. Boys who dared to be men, who were cocoon in the Lady Ashelocke’s web. She’d share them with other ladies, draining a little at a time, until all the violence and vitality was sapped from them.
This was what males were, sustenance. Sustenance for a lady, smiling slyly through the red lips and fanged teeth. This was all Damian thought there was sustenance or being a lady, until he saw her.
Straight and tall, her golden hair fell freely from any ornament or confinement. She’d laughed the deep, full bellied laugh of a man, or what Damian dreamed it would be like. Rich with unabashed joy. She did this, while fluttering her eyelashes like Duessa might have.
“Quite the place you live in,” she’d said, winking at him. Her complete lack of fear had made his shoulders relax, draining away his own shyness. “Must be frustrating.”
Yes, it had been. Frightening, but every shivering merchant, tenant, and artist who lived in the arachnocratic lands feared the Ashelockes. Damian himself grew up, shivering at the rustle of his aunt’s skirts across her marble floor.
There had been another word for his situation. Damian Ashelocke didn’t understand it, until Gabrielle herself uttered it, giving it voice. Frustrating.
She had understood. She’d seen his frustration, before Damian realized what it was.
Perhaps this was why he’d chosen to follow her, to leave Duessa’s marble halls to wander the world at Gabrielle’s side.
Only she hadn’t chosen to wander the world. She opened a shop in a small village, a shop filled with objects which weren’t what they seemed.