"A.I." RPG: "Vatican Council"-era fic: "Jus Prima Noctis"

[matrixrefugee]

NOTE: I'm rating this NC-17, even though there's nothing really explicit in it. The content is just of a nature that some young folks' minds just might not get what's going on here. I'd also like to add -- in case anyone might be concerned -- that the opinions held by my characters are theirs and theirs alone. I just chronicle what happens.

"Jus Prima Noctis" (Right of the First Night)

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

<3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Le droit du Seigneur. Jus prima noctis. The Divine Right of Kings. Whatever they called it, it boiled down to one thing: Before a young woman in the Europan Empire could marry, she first had to spend one single night with Le Meroveque; if she lived to far away for travel to be convenient, or if there were some other reason why this duty could not be carried out, she and her spouse merely had to pay a "bride price" of 50 Euro. But, five times out of ten, late one evening, she will make the journey by train to the Chateau de Rennes, perched in the mountains to the south, where she is sequestered in the village's one inn, the Crown and Star.

During the following day, two women from the Chateau will come to the inn, to inspect the girl and help her to prepare for the evening's encounter. The willing ones are always full of questions, the less-than-willing need to be reassured of the significance of this ritual: His Royal Excellency stood in the place of nature, and just as she had to undergo the trial of menarche in order to pass from childhood to maidenhood, so she needed to be guided from maidenhood to womanhood. Thus it would be less of a hardship for her to surrender to her husband's embrace and for her to take him into her arms, since she would know what to expect.

Late in the evening, well-past sundown, a car like an antique Mercedes from the far-distant 1930s, will pull up before the inn. Two young men will emerge, one a distant kinsman of Le Meroveque, the other an Asian, quite possibly a Mecha: few humans possess such preternatural calm and poise. Her guides will help her into the rear seat of the car, then will get into the front seat before they drive away, up the winding mountain path to the outcropping on the side of Mount Segur, where the Chateau stands.

The wrought iron gates open at their approach and they pull into the circular drive before the edifice. The guides help the maiden out of the rear of the car, around the side of the Chateau to the west end of the building. At a set of double oak doors, they pause and the Asian knocks three times on the doors.

A wicket opens in one door and someone peers out. "Who approaches His Excellency's chamber?" a man's gruff voice asks.

"The chosen one," the Orga guide replies.

The wicket slams shut and the doors open from within, a tall, lanky man with a long, tousled shock of brown hair and fierce brown eyes steps back, holding the doors open, admitting them into a long, shadowy hallway with a marble floor and goffered walls. The guides lead the girl in; once she is over the threshold, the tall man closes the doors behind them.

At this point, even the most experienced girl trembles; the inexperienced often choke back a sob.

But as if in reply, a small woman with long silvery hair pulled back from her soft, dark, Gypsy-like face, emerges from the shadows. She approaches the chosen one and speaks to her soothingly. After a moment, the kind newcomer takes her by the hand and leads her deeper into the hallway, to a kind of secluded dressing room where her guide helps her out of her clothes and into a long white robe lined with green. The experienced ones always wear some sort of fancy undergarments: lacy, silky things, or something more exotic. The inexperienced always wear the simple cotton things they usually wear.

Then the silver-haired woman speaks at length to the girl: he is nothing to fear, nor is his embrace: in fact, he's quite gentle. Let him lead, but if you feel he is going too quickly for you, don't be afraid to speak up.... Then with a slightly teasing, saucy note, she adds, "Besides, there's dozens of women who die happy to have the chance you're getting."

This often brings a laugh out of even the most apprehensive girl. The silvery-haired woman takes her by the hand and leads her down the hallway and around a corner. They approach a tall bookcase; the guide reaches up and selecting a volume, tilts it toward them.

The bookcase swings outward, revealing an open doorway into a hidden room. The air here smells sweet with roses and incense and exotic perfumes. Candles in wall sconces light the room, and the light from a fire crackling on the hearth falls on the rich, red curtains drawn back from a wide, luxuriant four-poster bed in the corner, made up for two, the purple tapestried coverlet and the feather comforter covering it pulled back invitingly. Even the most experienced girl cannot help but feel a rush of emotions: fear, wonder, excitement, languor, and something almost dangerous, as if she were embarking on an adventure.

The silver-haired woman speaks: "Mon Seigneur: the intended is here."

There is a rustle from a red velour-covered sofa nearby. The guide releases the girl's hand and gently places her palm on the back of the girl's shoulder, nudging her closer to the sofa, before releasing her and stepping back into hallway. The door closes quietly.

And then the girl sees who caused that rustle.

On the sofa, facing them, a small, reddish brown-haired man clad in a wine-colored robe, hardly much bigger than a child, reclines with his head propped on one hand, elbow resting on the arm of the sofa. Her eyes meet his as he seeks out her face, his grey-green eyes brilliant, a trifle mocking, but their expression softening in the candlelight. A quiet, welcoming smile plays about his wide, sensuous mouth. The small ones find themselves suprised at how tiny he is: not much taller or wider in the shoulders than they are; the larger ones realize that they are wide-mouthed with consternation as they look *down* at him.

Most drop their gaze, humbled, even a little shocked. Can this tiny man be the one who will initiate her? The news photographs they have seen of him make him seem taller than he really is. Some seem disappointed, others find themselves stunned by what they see. But seeing how small he really is puts them at ease. He looks, at one in the same time, both ordinary and majestic. He is past his young manhood, and yet he still bears a potency and a vitality found only in the young.

He rises and greets her, kissing her hand gently yet with a hint of passion. Some willingly let him lead them to the couch where he was seated before. Others hold back, hesitating for the moment. To each he speaks with reassurance, in a voice at once gruff and mellow, which soothes their apprehension. He reiterates what the silver-haired woman has said, only in more detail: this is more than a mere rendezvous; it is a ritual. He expects nothing of them, this is for her. She is not giving herself to him, rather he is giving himself to her.

Some admit their hesitance, others stammer in shame. Some who thought they were ready for this suddenly find their palms sweating slightly. But he speaks to each soothingly, gaining their confidence, melting any feelings of resistance.

As they warm to him, he draws closer to them, slipping an arm about her shoulders, letting it slowly creep down to her waist as they continue to talk. At length, the time for words passes. Any stutters from the hesitant and gently quelled with a kiss, at once tender and fierce, his mouth on hers, tilting her head back, his arms drawing her close to him. His hands caress her soft form, tracing her outline under her robe. Some find their hands seeking him out, others keep their hands to themself. Some of the more eager ones reach for the sash of his robe, trying to undo it, but these he gently holds off, taking their hand by the wrist. "Not now," he says. "That will come in its own good time."

But at length, he rises and leads her to the bed, helping her out of her robe, then helping her to lay down upon the pillows. Some lay there wondering what is to happen next, suddenly realize the note of anticipation in their feeling; others invite him deep into their embrace, feeling a trace of a shiver run through their loins.

He pauses, standing before the bed, backlit by the firelight and the candles in the room. His hands go to his waist, undoing the loose knot in the cord holding his robe closed. Then, with a shrug at once commonplace and graceful, he removes the robe, letting it slip from his form. His build is slender, even thin, to the point of boniness, lending him an odd air of delicacy.

He approaches the bed and mounts it, pausing over the girl, poised, looking down into her eyes with a gaze ot fierce tenderness. Few resist him then. Some he must coax with more caresses and words of reassurance. Many reach up and draw him down to them, into their arms. A few dig their nails into him, marking him, some cutting his flesh till it bleeds. He prepares them slowly, setting their beings on fire with pleasure before at length they open to him, a willow entwining with an oak...

But at length he withdraws and releases them, laying down by their side. Some lie dazed with pleasure, some are stunned by what has happened, some fall asleep in contentment, some linger, seeking more, some are relieved it has passed. He speaks gently to each afterward. At length, he rises and helps each back into her robe, first helping her turn it inside out, from white to green.

He opens the door for her. The silver-haired woman stands there, waiting to escort the young woman back to the inn. Often, she stays with the young woman till the next morning. Even the most experienced girls need some consolation after the encounter.

The next morning, the Asian courier approaches the inn, bringing to the young woman a brown paper parcel. Inside will be one thing: a folded bedsheet. Always it will have a bloodstain on it, a few will have several small scattered spots from where the young woman cut his flesh with her nails, but most will have just a small stain in one place.