A tree, emerald leaves with hints of fruit, the scent of apple blossoms and honey, sleepy drone of distant bees, sunlight sneaking past green canopy to dapple the ground and illuminate manuscripts written in dust and fallen leaves, the ground is warm with the heat of sap flowing just beneath the surface, the stately trunk warmer still, glorious rough bark providing all-terrain clothing for something that shapes the land instead of traversing it, a waypost in the rolling countryside.

Bonfire, sunset sky lit up with embers that leap free of their birth coals, wood shifting and crackling, heat rolling out in almost-visible waves, and the scent of woodsmoke and combustion tickles noses, taunts the tongue, you can never taste the flames but sight and smell make up for such a dreadful lack, watching the rich glow creep lower into the wood, consuming, destroying, leaving behind the fire gems that gleam so beautifully below the smoke.

Dark hair falling over scraps of silk and velvet, pooling in a lap, pale fingers entwining themselves deep in satin strands, the gentlest tug, the head moves slightly, a faint whimper or perhaps only a sigh of pleasure as the evening approaches, yawn, stretch, catlike movements and eyes turned first to the fire, then up, looking at a loving face framed by branches and copperbright tangles, soft words almost lost in the chuckle and flow of the nearby stream.

If I told you that I loved you it would be true, and you know that, I think.

If I told you that I want you, that too would be the truth, and you are aware of it.

Now, I can tell you that you are mine, and even knowing limits, knowing that this is simply a lesson to be learned for you and a moment of safety for me, nothing more, even then the feeling of peace and contentment that is tracing Aztec patterns through my soul and carving long-forgotten runes into my heart is enough to leave me breathless, my hands pressed to my mouth, hiding the smile that refuses to leave.

You see, I know that this is not how I would have chosen to have you. Not as a punishment or a lesson. I would rather it were out of affection and desire. When it is like this... ahh, the lessons will be taught well and the purpose for it is a good one. I have no complaints. This is necessary.

And still I dream of high-arching wood, soot marbling the leaves above, fingers sliding down across your skin and touching, brushing, holding the sleek band of leather and steel that marks the alpha and omega of my dreams.

Forgive me, love... I cannot stop smiling, my happiness at this shames me. I am happy, because you are mine.