Cantice V

Her grin grew even wider, giving him a quick peck on the lips before saying, “Just don’t make it too obvious. But I must return now, lest anyone grow too suspicious. We’ll be seeing more of each other later. I’ll let you know.” She gave him one last kiss, a long, passionate one, before poking head out the door and then quickly exiting. Her mere presence left him smiling as largely as he could, his very being feeling lighter for having been in her presence. It is as though he was now floating on some blissful cloud, free of any and every worry that had ever plagued his life. None of it even mattered at the moment, only his love for this woman.

He was perhaps in there for longer than he had realized after she left, as the slightly ajar door was opened by his faithful Famulus, who took a cloth and wiped the residue of lipstick which had been smeared onto his own lips. He followed him back out through the entrance which he had erstwhile berated for barring his entry. Back in the street, a back alley at best, they made their way to the avenue upon which the main entrance to the house lay, and knocked on the door, to be greeted by the head slave of the household, a shriveled old man who always wore a black tunic, perhaps seeing this as a symbol of his station. The old man quivered out his words, “Lord Didius, do come in.”

Cantice strolled right in past the man, even as if this home were his own. He inquired, despite knowing the answer himself, “Might you direct me to the house shrine that I may pour a libation for your masters? Beyond that, the rest of this jug of wine he carries is for the house.” The elder slave nodded and tottered off at a pace he thought slower than really necessary. They entered the atrium, the large front room with a pool in the middle, and there were already many guests here, in the reception room between the atrium and the garden in the back. He waved towards them, trying his best to make a smile that didn’t seem as a poorly attached façade to his interior which truly didn’t give a shit for them. Instead, he headed into an alcove off the side of the atrium where the shrine to the household gods lay.

Cantice IV

If I do really well, I'll be three quarters the way finished with my first draft at the end of this month. If I don't do really well, I should still get there by the middle of April. I would expect the latter, as my schedule is going to be pretty busy for the next two weeks or so. Regardless, that will have me completed by the end of May, which is something that I'm pretty excited about. And after that? Months of editing. Oh joy.

“Of course, darling,” he responded with a smile. “Your husband shall attend the same banquet as we, but I secretly hope that it should be his last. What am I, left as just another dinner companion to sit and admire this divine beauty that lay before me?” He grinned the widest smile and suggested, “When you lie together on your couch for dinner, you must lie beside him with innocent expression, you must tap my foot and watch my most expressive features. We shall speak with our eyebrows alone! You may lay by him, but you must refuse him. Bid him to drink what he has mixed for you, and eat not that which has been touched by his mouth. Let him not touch your neck, nor engage your thigh with his own, nor your foot to his. Have your husband drink greedily, always adding more wine to his own vessel. He will receive kisses now, but the situation will arise where these kisses will belong only to me, only to their rightful owner.”

She returned her grin in response to him, hers just as big as his, she just as excited as he. He could tell by means of her eyes alone that she felt for him as he did for her. Her response was as such, “A situation may arise where we are able to engage one another, and indeed I plan on it. However, this is a party at his behest, filled with his friends, and making such public motions, however discreet, will be detected by unscrupulous and untrusting eyes, easily discerning our clever plot. No, Cantice. Remember that victory loves prudence, and just as in war, in love. If we do not act with discretion today, then there can be no tomorrow. You do want tomorrow to come, do you not?”

He felt a little bit crushed on the inside, but of course, as always her wisdom shone through and lit the way for a more reasonable decision than his hopelessly romantic notions. He was sure that she could see in his face as well, so he instantly brightened his expression and responded, “Of course, my love. Correct as always. Just know that not a moment shall pass on this eve where I am not casting lustful gazes in your direction, thinking of what is to come later between the two of us.”

Cantice III

For those of you not from North Carolina, we just experienced a pretty bad ice storm which knocked out power for a lot of people, including me, for a couple of days. In fact, three fourths of the county which I live in was without power. That was fun. On a completely random note, I've started watching Hellsing Ultimate, which I don't think is as striking or has as high of artistic quality as a single unit as the other version, but I think I like better. I dunno. Just sort of rambling at this point. Enjoy my writ.

The door quickly swung open halfway, the slave which had opened the door originally motioning with his head to come inside. With a quick look up and down the alleyway, Cantice quickly skulked inside.

He was in the kitchen, surrounded by slaves doing slave things. How dull. He skittered on past them to find his own Famulus eating something off of some plate. He came up behind him and interjected in a hushed tone, “Famulus, my good man, now is not the time for eating. The mistress?” Unaware that his master had come in, he almost spit whatever he was eating out and looked at him with an uneasy toothy grin. Popping the rest of the brown food-like substance in his mouth, he led on, continuing on into another room and then yet another, where he then directed him to a pantry. Cantice put his hands on his hips and asked, “Really Famulus, a pantry?” The slave just shrugged his shoulders and cocked his head to the side. He relented and entered the storeroom amid foodstuffs for later consumption.

Quite shortly thereafter the door opened to reveal the shining light of his life, Catella. She looked over her shoulder and then rushed in, closing the door quickly behind her. Their hands instantly went for one another, each seeming to have one hand grasp the other’s midsection and the other towards the face, pressing their lips passionately against one another. Her tongue pressed against his lips and naturally he parted, allowing it passage into his own mouth, reciprocating in kind. However, he was a bit overly excited, a bit overly anxious, and knocked his teeth into hers. He cursed in his own mind. Cantice’s hand moved towards other regions of her body other than her midsection, but was quickly slapped away as she pushed herself off of him. She quietly protested, “My husband is home. We can’t be caught like this.”

Cantice II

Today you get reference to a Paraklausithyron, a style of poetry which takes place outside a lover's door.You can find examples of these from Horace in Odes 3.10 and 3.26, Tibullus 1.2, Propertius 1.16, and Ovid's Amores 1.6. I don't really have more to say, other than I'm going to be doing a lot of community service in the near future, against my will, and will therefore be exhausted by it. I hope you're all enjoying the wayward poet, Cantice.

Soon enough though, they reached the door to the urban villa which he had made his destination. Not the front door. Not yet. They were at the back, at the kitchen, where after drying himself off with his dinner napkin and trying to make himself up to look the best he possibly could in such short time, he instructed his slave as a teacher his pupil, “Now then, you know what to do Famulus. Let the lady know that I am here, such that we may meet.” The slave said nothing, but turned to knock on the door, and soon enough another had opened the door and beckoned him in. Before he could disappear, Cantice interrupted, “Oh, a cup of wine. Diluted.” The slave who answered the door brought him a small ceramic cup which he quickly swallowed and then handed back, otherwise ignoring the slave, who then shut the door, leaving Cantice outside with nothing but the door.

He began to pace back and forth. It had been but a modicum of time, but how such brief passages of time seemed to stretch on unto infinity whence such occasions occur. Oh door, oh doorkeeper, set the hinge in motion and move the stubborn oak. Oh, how love shows man swiftly how to come to thee, even as his very gut churns against the placidity of his serene façade. Even the spirits mock, so sayeth Amora, spirit of love, as a gentle mother cradling her child, “you must become brave.” Thus here I made my way and hence I am here. Oh door, you listen to my prayer, as solemn and filled with sorrow as it may be, but listen with a heart of iron and a countenance of oak. Oh, how locked doors are useful amidst a city at siege, but when all is at peace, why is it that you should keep lovers from one another’s warm embrace? Why is it that even now you still yet fear a reprisal of arms? Why is it that you should dread my ire and hold yourself steadfast against me?

Wait, what’s this? Do my senses deceive? Do the doorposts groan with a driving hinge? Oh. How I have been deceived by a gentle breeze, the north wind carrying off my hopes and dreams, spoils of war to be violently raped. What is it that you want? What is it that shall make you appeased? What yet must I still do; a prayer or offering of some manner to gain your confidence such that I may pass through your threshold unmolested? Must I now arm myself with fire and iron such as to take you by force, oh terrible doorkeeper? By the seven gods that govern you, let them see that I have tried everything, but your insatiable greed and stalwart defense thwart my heart. Alas, ye cruel doorpost with rigid threshold, body of unfeeling timber, I must be away of you, lest you further rend my heart and leave it ragged.

Cantice I

Well, now here I am starting up a chapter for a new character which you all have not yet seen: Cantice. He's a poet. This week I'm going to try to start up doing my extra posts, but I'm a terrible blogger, so good luck to me on that. That's actually about it, thusfar. Enjoy.

“Oh dear, we’re late. Late. Late. What am I to do with myself, Famulus?” The poet hurried down the street, trying his best to hold up his robes as he scuttled down the street, his slave easily keeping pace with him, despite having to carry a backpack with multiple wax tablets in it and both his dinner napkin and a gift in his hands. The slave said nothing.

His clothing was relatively heavy, and despite it only being early spring, it was too hot for him to be moving this hurriedly. He was supposed to be devoted to his writing, to the practice and beauty of the Erraman language, not running down streets, clumsily clutching at his clothing whilst sweat began to drip. Sweat ran down his forehead from his hair, sweat ran down his stomach from his chest, sweat ran down his buttocks from his back. Oh, how miserable this was. He never understood how people could do this, particularly in armour, when they went off to fight in their foolish wars.

Suddenly it hit him. He couldn’t keep running, despite being late. He had to slow down and make sure that he wasn’t sweating and disgusting looking, even if he were to be late. If he kept running, he would look terrible for the woman that he sought to impress. Why did I not think of that before I started moving so hurriedly? Why did I not just leave in time to get here earlier? Cantice always had the habit of planning too many things to get any of them done efficiently. He wasn’t the sort to tell two friends that he would spend time with them both in the same day. That was never his problem. His problem was that he thought that he could write a bit, have lunch, go to the baths, get something from a shop, get dressed, travel, and about a dozen other small things before he had to go off to a party. This would only take a moment, that even less, but they each take more time than scheduled for both.