Thread: Certain Doom, Interrupted (Methos and Autumn)

This prince possessed a certain pride that mirrored the arrogance that most Greeks carried. Though he had come of his own accord, the boast of heroism danced in his eyes. It was a fault as much as it was an asset, though it had clearly worked in both their favors as he had rescued her from a dark fate. Humbled was she, a princess of dire circumstances, to be standing in the shadows of such a valiant man. Androkles seemed to be a man of intelligence and charm, both skills he seemed to execute cleanly. She liked that he recognized the gods, accepting that perhaps his dream had been a vision much like that her mother had had before Kleitos was born. Aphrodite is a mighty Goddess. She has aided me in the twenty-three years of my life, and it is by her hand that you were guided to me. She is my creator, and I am thankful to her for touching you, as well. Without reservation, his lips leaned in to boldly press upon hers. It was apparent in that moment that he thought he was entitled to the tenderness of her kiss as he had intervened between the minotaurs and her body. Thus, she allowed him to claim her mouth in a fleeting moment. If he thought that she owed him in any other manner, he was mistaken. Her body was not to be taken, but to be given to whom she wanted to receive it. You barely know me, Prince Androkles. She stated, tilting her face slightly so that her lips did not so easily brush his. Surely you are accustomed to women of lavish beauty whereas I am just a humble servant of the gods. She knew well how to speak, complimenting his arrogance and displaying her modesty. Come, let me wash away the dirt from your wounds. Her voice was like velvet as she spoke, her hand gentle as she tugged him toward the inner chambers of the ship. Stepping through a curtain, she entered into what surely must have been his quarters as it was dressed with a single bed and several pieces of functional furniture. Please, have a seat upon the bed. There was a small bowl of clean water nestled atop a table that she thought must have been provided for washing. Showing her gratitude toward his bravery, Ambrosia reached down and tore strips of cloth from her own garment. Dipping it into the water, she squeezed it into the basin before sauntering toward him. Reaching him, she dropped to her knees. There was little light in the room, save for the sliver of moonlight that entered through the window. She could scarcely see him, his figure barely outlined against the contrast of the dark bed. Water dripped down onto her aching wrists, reminding her of what the restraints had done to her body. Careful hand grazed his shoulder, dabbing at the dried blood with her cloth. When the left side was clean, she leaned over and moved toward the right. My poor prince, scarred by beasts. She whispered, delicately washing away the sanguine hue from his skin. When she had cleansed him, she stood up and returned the cloth to the bowl of water. Inspecting her task completed, she stepped back toward his figure. Leaning over him, she blew warm puffs of air across his arms, drying them, while errant strands of long hair tickled over his forearms. Capturing his face with her hands, she tilted it upward until her soft lips pressed to his forehead.