Chapter Six

---

"Vincent?"

The voice in the outer passageway startled him. He’d been so caught up in his journal entry that he hadn’t sensed anyone’s approach, almost unheard of for him. It had been a while since he’d heard the last tapping of the time over the pipes, but he knew nonetheless that it was almost three o’clock in the morning. He closed the journal and set it aside before calling out softly in response.

"Come in, Hannah."

He’d recognized the voice instantly, as he did all tunnel inhabitants and helpers. His visitor peered around the corner hesitantly, then finally stepped into the chamber when Vincent gestured her nearer. She approached the table but didn’t sit down, fidgeting awkwardly.

"I’m sorry to bother you so late, Vincent. I wouldn’t have come, but, well, I thought it couldn’t hurt to see if you were up, and when I saw the candlelight from outside..."

"I couldn’t sleep. Sit down, please. Tell me what’s bothering you."

Finally she pulled out a chair and eased into it, though Vincent clearly sensed her restless energy and suspected she might have preferred some motion, even the aimlessness of pacing, to this restrained inactivity. Vincent understood that well.

"It’s Mark."

Vincent nodded and waited for her to go on. Mark and Hannah had been together ever since they were sixteen. Four years had passed since then, and as neither had shown any inclination to go above and were both apprentices in training for several different functions necessary to the maintenance of their world, it had generally been accepted that they would join their lives together and raise a family below, as had both of their parents before them. Hannah didn’t continue, and finally Vincent urged her on.

"Have you and Mark had a fight? Is anything wrong?"

"Yes. No." She sighed heavily, shook her head and brushed a hand restlessly through her dark hair. "In a way."

"Would you like to talk about it?"

Vincent didn’t push her, knowing full well how difficult this could be for the younger members of their community. Many had come to him for advice on their love lives over the years, much to his amazement. He’d put that amazement aside years ago, though, when he’d finally reached the rueful conclusion that despite his lack of experience in this area, they still wanted his input and counsel. Hannah nodded, but it was a few minutes more before she spoke again, and Vincent waited patiently.

"We’ve decided that the joining ceremony will be in five months, just after my birthday."

Vincent nodded in understanding. It was a generally accepted rule below that couples did not take this step until both were twenty-one, at least. The difference in maturity between even the most independent eighteen or nineteen year old and one of twenty-one was fairly dramatic, despite the environment of responsibility and care that the children below were raised in. Mark would turn twenty-one next month, and Hannah four months after that, so he well understood the timing of the date selected.

"As we have all expected." He placed a comforting hand upon the shoulder of the young woman, squeezing the tensed muscle there affectionately. "I’m very happy for you and Mark, Hannah. You’ve shown your devotion and love for each other clearly over these last four years, indeed throughout all the years of your life together here. Everyone will rejoice with your decision."

Hannah smiled gratefully at her ex-teacher and mentor, but the smile was a little thin, and more than a little distracted.

"What is it? What’s wrong?" Vincent enquired sympathetically, wondering about the tension filling her. "Are you having doubts?"

Hannah hurried to reassure him.

"No, not at all. On the contrary..."

The pause that followed spoke volumes, and Vincent suddenly realized what her problem was. He felt like an idiot for taking so long to understand, especially given the events of this night.

There were no hard and fast rules regarding abstinence in their community, though it was generally taught and understood that a certain level of maturity was expected before the youth below would consider a relationship of that intimacy. They were raised in an atmosphere where this was well understood, as was the need for responsibility and caution from both partners should they decide to share a closer relationship. Light-hearted physical flings were very rare here, and many, though certainly not all of the younger members, chose to wait, especially if they had been lucky enough to find their mates early on, and knew the joining date was in the not-too-distant, foreseeable future. He paused for a moment, trying to think of how he could help this young woman, this child really, with a problem he had wrestled with himself and which still inspired chaos, confusion and fear in him.

"You love Mark. You’ve been together now for four years and you’re finding it difficult to wait, is that it?"

"I... I do love him, Vincent, so much. But I could wait, and I’m ready to. It’s Mark..."

Her voice trailed off, and Vincent felt a jolt of emotion in the pit of his stomach. How well he understood the sensation of desire felt from the one you loved. The almost irresistible pull to give in to that craving, to complete yourself and your mate within it, was a primal force almost impossible to deny. Catherine had controlled those deeper emotions so well during their first two years together, but flashes of need had escaped her now and then, more and more frequently as time went on, as did his own. The draw to her was so strong, and growing stronger. He wondered how long he could possibly hold out against such a force. It was so difficult now, and so tiring. How he yearned to give in, to simply let that struggle go, to hold her close and love her with all the passionate longing of his heart and body, to feel her touch against his skin, as he had only imagined it this night...

"It’s only five months, Vincent." Hannah’s voice brought him back from the seductive, insidious thoughts and emotions suddenly filling him and he resolutely focused his concentration on the girl before him.

"It’s difficult, but I think we should wait. We’ve waited this long, after all."

"What does Mark say?"

"He says the joining ceremony is second to what’s in our hearts, that we made our commitment to each other long ago, and he already considers us joined, regardless of the ceremony. He doesn’t want to wait any longer."

Vincent didn’t know what to say. He had known both of them all their lives, since they were children, and was certain that Mark was unlikely to be putting undue pressure on the woman he loved. No, with an insight born of his own situation, he saw clearly that there were fine shadings to everything, and this was but one of them. That thought gave him pause; perhaps his situation was not so unique as he had once thought it to be. Both were right in how they viewed things, and both views were reasonable. They had always been a responsible couple and neither he nor anyone else below doubted their devotion and commitment to one another. None would begrudge them the next logical step of their relationship, whether joined by ceremony or no. He truly didn’t know how his counsel could be of any use in this situation. It was purely a matter of the heart, and one that he struggled with himself, though far beyond the years of the young woman sitting before him.

"And you want to wait for the ceremony to finalize your commitment before all the others?" he queried tentatively, unsure of what more he could say.

"Yes...no. I don’t know, Vincent. Mark is right. We made a commitment to ourselves long ago, and I have no doubts about it. I love him so much, and I want him so..."

She looked up shyly at the older man, then glanced away in embarrassment.

"I think I’m a little scared of this next step."

"I understand. This intimacy you contemplate is a big step, but it’s a natural one for the future you’ve planned."

"I know. I don’t understand why this is such a problem for me now. A year ago it seems I couldn’t stop bothering him over this, but he insisted we wait, he said I was too young!" she added, throwing a frowning glance in her mentor’s direction, then looking away quickly as she bit her lip. It was obvious that the memory of that time in their relationship, of his denial of her needs, still stung.

Vincent tried to contain the smile that tugged at his lips. So the worm had turned…

"And now?" he prompted.

Hannah sighed heavily. "He’s so certain now. I think the strength of his desire for me, and mine for him, frightens me a little. I know it’s silly..."

"No, it’s not. Surely Mark hasn’t said so?"

"No, of course not," she hurried to assure him. "He would never do anything to pressure me," she added, confirming his earlier thoughts. "He isn’t insisting on anything. He doesn’t really say anything about it at all, but I can tell…"

Her voice trailed off, a faraway look in her eyes at those words and Vincent watched her expression change, curiosity getting the better of his habitual reserve and respect for others privacy.

"You can tell what?" he asked.

"I can tell that he’s having a difficult time waiting, that being together has become harder for him than it was before," she finished quietly. "It’s just that I don’t know if I can be what he expects, what he needs. I don’t know anything about this, besides what I’ve read in books, not really. Sometimes, when he’s holding me close, when we’re kissing...and touching...I think I understand it so well. There’s nothing to understand then – it’s all so clear. But something always happens, some thought or sound intrudes, or someone appears out of the blue, needing something to be done..."

She paused for a moment, and when she spoke again her voice contained a trace of irritability.

"I don’t know if you’ve noticed it, Vincent, but for such a small community it sure seems like there’s always someone around."

He couldn’t help the soft snort of laughter that escaped him, but when she looked up in surprise, he only replied enigmatically, "I’ve noticed."

Her eyebrows quirked for a moment, and a speculative look flashed across her face, but she didn’t ask him to elaborate, though for a moment he was afraid she would. Instead she nodded in understanding, paused thoughtfully, then went on again. Vincent could tell she struggled with herself whether to disclose this next information or not.

"But Mark has no doubts, not about us and not about it. I can sense that so clearly, even when he says nothing. I... I do trust him, Vincent, I do. Sometimes...sometimes I think I’m letting my fears betray the trust I have in him. I don’t want that. I never wanted that. I...I’m afraid that I might be using the ceremony as an excuse because I don’t quite know how to move forward, now after all these years together."

Her hands shook and Vincent covered them comfortingly with his own. "You won’t betray his trust, Hannah, not as long as you remain true to him and to your love for him. It’s all right to be uncertain and afraid. Those are very human emotions, especially on the brink of such an eventful change in your life."

"But it’s selfish to think only of my own fears. What about his needs? I always want to be there for him, Vincent. I promised myself that over two years ago, when I realized that I really loved him, would always love him. I’m behaving like a child, and I’m not a child any more."

A sudden calm strength and resolution filled her face, and Vincent knew that she had come to her own conclusion, that she hadn’t really needed his counsel after all this night, but had only needed to listen to the voice within. Their love was all the truth they needed, and he saw it instantly when Hannah made that realization.

"Thank you for listening, Vincent," she said. She stood and leaned over to kiss his cheek, then quickly left, a small smile on her face.

Vincent sat lost in thought for some minutes after Hannah left. Finally he pulled his journal toward him and opened it to the entry made just thirty minutes before. He reread it twice, and with a sudden resolution closed the book, stood and began pulling clothes from his wardrobe. Within minutes he was dressed and headed downward, toward level C. What he was looking for was there, if he remembered it correctly, in the storage area next to the chamber containing their canned food inventory.

It took twenty minutes, but when he entered the storage chamber and lit the torch resting in its wall niche he immediately found the item he was looking for. The mirror was one of several pieces of furniture in this place waiting for use, as yet unclaimed. It was tall and narrow, and supported on a stand that allowed it to be tilted at various angles. Despite his determination, he was glad that its reflective surface was turned away from him. He took a packing blanket from a stack nearby and secured it around the delicate frame before picking it up in its entirety and making his way carefully out of the cluttered room.

It was almost four-thirty when he finally returned to his own chamber, and he was immensely grateful that he had encountered no one during his return trip this night, though it was inevitable that at least two of the sentries on duty had seen him and no doubt wondered at his peculiar errand at such a late hour. Still, it could have been worse; an hour more and he would have no doubt encountered several others among the early risers of their community.

No matter -- he dismissed it from his mind, focusing on the task ahead. He set the mirror down ten feet to the left of his chamber entrance, between a bookcase and the picture of him and Catherine painted by Kristopher. Perhaps it would give him courage. He stared at the mirror’s covered surface for a moment, then turned back to the exit. Near it, on the floor, several unlit lanterns rested. He picked up two and left the chamber then moved about twenty yards towards the main tunnel where he left one lantern before turning to retrace the well-known path. He passed his chamber to leave the other about twenty yards further down the side passage, near the bathing chamber he shared with Father. It was quite late, but Father was frequently among those early risers here and he wasn’t taking any chances.

In minutes he stood once more before the tall mirror. The rope tied about the frame was soon undone, and the blanket fell to the ground with an almost silent whoosh. Vincent found himself staring in shock at his own appearance.

He closed his eyes hastily, not quite prepared for the sight before him, and backed up until the edge of the writing table stopped his retreat. Slowly, his gaze directed downward, he opened his eyes once more. In the mirror he saw his booted feet -- nothing too disturbing there. He took a deep breath and moved his gaze upward until finally he met the blue eyes of his reflection. Despite the anxiety and distress that image inspired, this time he didn’t look away.

Vincent couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen his own reflection so clearly. Oh, he saw depictions of himself periodically, in Elizabeth’s painted tunnels, and more recently in Kristopher’s painting, but that was different. Those images weren’t really him, though he wasn’t so certain he could honestly make that claim in the latter case. Still, the truth was he never sought out his living and breathing reflection, though there were times, especially when swimming or bathing, when he couldn’t avoid a glimpse of himself. Those glimpses were always hazy though, vague and indistinct, not like this.

Long tawny hair framed a face unlike any other he’d ever encountered, either below or above. The blue eyes were human enough he conceded, but that was about all. In dismissing them so quickly he didn’t see what Catherine saw when she looked at him. Didn’t see the intense color, the clear depths that saw so much, the light that gleamed from within, full of possibilities. He didn’t see any of this, instead moving on to inspect the features that made him look overtly different from the others about him.

His eyebrows met near a deep furrow, which in turn led down to a broad nose covered with a downy coating quite unlike any of the other textures of his body. A recollection filled him then of his childhood, strong and clear. Like many of the other tunnel children he had sucked his thumb as a toddler, but whereas most of them had dragged around ragged tatters of blankets edged with satiny fabric, worn down by the repetitive rubbings of tiny hands through long nights, he had instead found a strange comfort in stroking the silky bridge of his nose, easily reached by his curled forefinger while sucking his thumb. He reached up now and felt that silky softness once again. Strangely enough that memory and touch soothed him in the midst of this difficult appraisal and he found himself able to continue his inventory with at least some semblance of control.

A different texture shadowed much of his lower face, stopping just short of his high, prominent cheekbones. This coating he knew was coarser, but yet not rough. The hair there was short and fine and more integral to his face and features than, say, Father’s or William’s beard. Like the rest of the hair on his body, it grew in a pattern that was silky and sleek when stroked along the grain. Keeping his gaze pinned upon the mirrored image, he let his palms stroke along his cheeks down to his jaw and back up again, confirming what he already knew. Silky and sleek going down, yes, rougher in the opposite direction.

The last feature he sought out was his mouth. Different. As with his nose, there was no denying the dramatic contrast here. His lower lip was not perhaps atypical, but the upper one had a very short, very fine, silky coating that in no way felt coarse, no matter how it was touched. That fine hair almost completely covered any normal definition his lip might otherwise have had, and the cleft at the center...

He shuddered, for a moment unable to stop himself from turning away. How -- how could he even think of kissing Catherine with that mouth? Catherine had been kissed before, had shared lovers kisses well beyond the scope of his own experiences. How could she want this from him? What would it feel like to her?

He closed his eyes and shook off those thoughts. No. He wouldn’t give in to despair and denial -- not this time. He would force himself through this exercise no matter what. Tonight he would see himself as Catherine might. If he couldn’t do this, what chance was there for any further movement between them? None, he knew that with an absolute certainty. And they both wanted so much more, wanted it desperately. He opened his eyes and found his image once again, returning to the feature that had started the spiraling wave of fear and disgust in him. His lips trembled visibly as he stared at his reflection, and shaking fingers rose to cover his mouth. It had never felt foreign to him, of course, but he had never really given it much thought, not since Lisa, not until Catherine...

Catherine. He let his fingers stroke lightly along the trembling curves of his lips, imaging it was Catherine’s own hand touching him. How would this feel to her? Different, but not bad, not really. They had shared two kisses in the last few months; she had kissed him after her father’s death, and he had kissed her more than two weeks ago, just before they’d left the way-station for the home tunnels, after her accident. Vincent reviewed that last kiss with wonder, amazed again that he had had the courage to do such a thing. At the time, though, there had been no thought of courage in his mind, just the need to assure her of his steady presence by her side.

In the end he could find nothing in the memory of that moment to indicate that she had felt anything that could be construed as disgust or revulsion. Despite his own chaotic thoughts and emotions, he had clearly felt her love and acceptance. She wanted this from him, she had never hidden that, though she tried to keep her desires muted as much as possible for his own comfort. He was the one who had not been willing or able to address this issue.

It had always been him, but no more. He didn’t know where this would lead, but he was determined to at least stop fooling himself in this regard -- there was too much at stake. He drew in a deep breath and felt his pounding heartbeat slow until it was once more steady. Finally his hand dropped back down to his side and his gaze left his face to take in the fuller picture of the image before him.

The overall impression others had of him could be described in one word; big. In height at least it wasn’t really true, but he knew it was the general perception nonetheless. At almost six foot three he would never be considered short, there were taller men below. His own brother, Devin, topped him by more than an inch. But for shear muscle mass, no one could come close. It was a little deceiving, though, because he was so compact. His weight had varied almost not all once he’d reached full adulthood, staying at 240 pounds plus or minus a bit -- far more than anyone might have guessed merely by looking at him. This was due to the fact that his body was composed almost entirely of muscle, bone and sinew, with almost no fat. From his varied readings, he knew that the average, healthy woman’s body was 22% fat and 78% muscle, while an average man’s was closer to 15% fat and 85% muscle. Though his own had never been measured, he was quite sure his body contained considerably less fat than that, perhaps only as little as five percent.

It was one of the reasons why he sometimes appeared deceptively slender, and also why he tended to get cold easier than some of the others. It was chilly below, the average temperature around 55 degrees, but that was easily dealt with by wearing multiple layers of clothing -- a necessity he was quite happy with for other reasons. And the physical labor often required below was more than adequate to keep him warm throughout the day, especially with the friction his muscle mass generated. He often thought that this was one reason -- though probably not the primary one, he admitted to himself ruefully -- he paced as he did.

Whatever the reason, he rarely ever noticed any discomfort in this area, except perhaps at night. He often dressed in thick thermal shirts, fleecy sweatpants and socks when he slept, with numerous blankets to seal in his body heat. That was something, though, that did irritate him. When the weather turned hot and sultry above, they sometimes gained enough heat below to allow him to dispense with his heavier clothes and get by with a thin cotton nightshirt alone. He liked the unconstricting freedom of it in the privacy of his own chamber. Of course many of the others below had no need of those heavy layers at night, especially the couples who could share their body heat beneath the cozy covers...

His thoughts were wandering and he pulled them back resolutely to focus again on his image in the mirror. Big. Yes, there was no denying that. And strong. His strength was well beyond that of any challenge he’d ever yet encountered, though once he almost found it to be lacking -- on his quest to rescue Catherine from Paracelsus’ lair, far below the home tunnels. Still, he had other weapons besides mere strength at his disposal. The memory swept over him then, the sickening sensation of flesh tearing beneath his slashing nails, beneath his razor-sharp teeth...

No! Not that, not yet.

He wouldn’t let those fears turn him aside from this task. He wouldn’t take the easy way out, not this time. In a blatant challenge to the fears within him, Vincent’s hands rose to pull the dark cloak off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind him. The image in the mirror reassured him -- he looked smaller without the billowing mass of ebony surrounding him. The thickly padded vest followed and he breathed a sigh of relief. Better. He didn’t look so very different in size from the other men below now, with just a warm sweater and thermal shirt covering his torso. Still he hesitated before finally slipping both of the last layers over his head.

That task complete, he stood before the mirror for some minutes, his eyes tightly closed, then slowly opened them to encounter his image on the glass. A trembling overtook him at that sight, and he gasped with dismay. What had he been thinking, imagining himself to be no different than other men? How could he have let Catherine see him this way?! Bare-chested there was no way to ignore the differences which separated him from everyone else. The musculature of his body was vividly defined, a study in highlights and shadows, even through the coating of silky hair that covered him almost everywhere. And that covering...

About his shoulders, upper arms, back, sides and ribs it was quite thin, as on his lower face, while on the fullness of his chest it was a thicker golden thatch, narrowing as it traversed his body downward toward his navel. Despite that camouflage, the rippled muscles of his chest and abdomen were shockingly evident. Vincent closed his eyes and centered his breathing until once more he felt those tumultuous emotions subside.

When he opened his eyes again he was better able to view himself with at least a modicum of dispassion. All right, the hair on his body wasn’t like other men’s, but at least the pattern was. And though he was appalled now at the thought, Catherine had seen him like this, in the bathing chamber here below, just three weeks since. He had sensed no distress from her then, on the contrary, her response had felt strongly positive, full of excited anticipation, pleasure and joy. In retrospect, though, he still found that hard to believe, certain his own confusion had momentarily interfered with his ability to correctly interpret her emotions through their bond. At any rate, he had felt nothing that would lead him to believe she hadn’t expected his appearance to be exactly as it was.

Well, no, not exactly like this. He leaned over to pull off his boots and socks then perused his feet closely both directly and through the mirror, imaging how they had looked to Catherine. They were long and narrow with an almost invisible layer of silky hair coating the top of them, but they weren’t too different in general. True, his nails grew quickly, with a sharp edge, but these he clipped often, keeping them short and blunt. For a while, in his early twenties, he had done the same with the nails on his hands, but it had made him feel intensely uncomfortable and vulnerable, and he had quickly given up that practice. They were a part of him, a weapon he sometimes had to use for the protection of his home and family, despite the pain the aftermath of those events always brought him. No matter how much he might wish otherwise, he couldn’t be what he wasn’t.

He didn’t know how long he stared down at his feet in mute concentration, but finally he emerged from that reverie and returned his gaze to the mirror, to the bare-chested image before him. Slowly, almost hypnotically, his hands rose to stroke along the opposing shoulders and arms, feeling the pattern and textures there; taut muscles and silky hair, almost ingrained to the skin. Next his hands moved down to repeat that touch along his sides, fingers lightly brushing over his ribs. Yes, the same. He watched himself in the mirror, almost in a daze, stunned that he had been able to go so far in this exercise in one night. But he didn’t question that resolve now, continuing on with his tentative exploration. The hair on the center of his chest was neither sleek nor curly, but rather straight and longish, growing inward toward the stark indentation at the center of his torso, which ran the full length of him from breast to navel. Whereas the sleek, thinner coating of hair on his back, upper arms and sides gave mostly the impression of shadowed definition, this lush thatch of hair was reddish gold. His fingers slid into the thickest part of it, noting the texture with an almost analytical dispassion; rougher than the rest, but somehow still silky.

It wasn’t that he didn’t know his own body, but suddenly it was as if that were indeed true. Long ago he’d grown used to it while yet managing to ignore the surface details. There was one exception, though, and it nudged its way into his subconscious now, pushing past the walls of restraint he usually held so tight. When his world or family needed protection, especially when Catherine needed protection, a primal state emerged and controlled his actions completely. He was aware of everything then, but he acted instinctively, no room in him to deny his differences, only to make the maximum use of their potential. When that happened he felt all the nuances of his body, felt the power flow through him, as if it were contained within his muscles, as if it were contained within his very blood. His senses, always perceptive, were amazingly acute during that time, as was his awareness of everyone and everything within the radius of danger. That clarity and focus diminished after each incident, but slowly, reluctantly, and only with great effort on his part.

No! That thought was beyond the scope of what he could deal with this night. It would have to come later, when he was better prepared. Tonight was for a surface appraisal only. Tonight was to see what Catherine would see, if he decided to allow it. He firmly turned his thoughts away from that deep, dangerous place and back to the mirror.

His hands were motionless upon his chest, fingers buried in the thick hair at its center. He stroked outward gently, feeling the contrast of smooth skin, hard muscles and rough silkiness. His fingers brushed over small nipples, hidden among the dense covering, and he stopped in surprise, a tingling sensation quivering through him. After a moment’s pause he repeated that soft caress, this time with his eyes closed. As in the bathing pool a few nights back, in his mind it was Catherine touching him. Catherine’s small, tender hands, stroking him gently, lovingly...

A groan escaped him and his eyes flew open wide, stunned by that sound. He stared at himself in disbelief. How quickly he had given in to a fantasy of her now, during this strangely rational exercise of awareness. At the sight of himself in the mirror reality congealed around him and his hands dropped away. Wishful thinking that she would touch him like that, would want to touch him like that. And yet he knew it was true. She did want this...

Or so she thought.

He couldn’t help but believe that what she imagined was far, far from the reality of what was. Even the smaller differences were too different. And his appearance now might bear no resemblance to what she would find if he allowed his passion to flow unchecked. How would he appear to her then? How could he ensure that she wasn’t harmed, physically or emotionally? Impossible, this was impossible.

He stared at his reflection in dismay, uncertain what to do next. A voice inside him urged him on, whispering to him insidiously in a voice he knew. It compelled him to complete this journey, to at least take these steps, small though they were. The voice was soft but strong, and Vincent gave in, deep inside knowing it was right. Quickly, before he could change his mind, he undid the buttons of his trousers, stripped them down his legs and kicked them away.

As he had moments before, he stared again at his feet, anchoring himself with the least worrisome of his concerns. After a few moments he began to move his gaze upward along the mirrored reflection. Like the hair on his arms, it was denser on his lower legs, giving way to the short silky pattern near his knees. Using a strange sort of peripheral vision he twisted sideways, inspecting bits and pieces of his body without acknowledging the whole. He saw how the silky covering thinned out dramatically along his flanks, leaving his skin almost bare from the tops of his outer thighs, along his narrow hips and upwards to the middle of his ribcage at the edges of his torso. Twisting further, he saw that excepting his mane, the undercoat of which grew down his neck and halfway down along the center of his spine, the sleek hair was sparse along his upper back and shoulders, and lessened even further as he traced downward, leaving much of his buttocks and the inner surface of his thighs almost-but-not-quite bare of the golden coating. His skin, despite the fact that the sun never saw it, had a tawny cast that somehow blended in perfectly with the silky coating covering him elsewhere.

He stared here and there in bemusement, putting off the inevitable, but finally he gave in, his body suddenly quite still. Facing full front to the mirror, he let the image of himself fill his vision. He thought he was prepared, but he gasped in consternation, stunned by the figure before him. An arm here, a leg there, silky hair sometimes sparsely spread, sometimes lushly thick, somehow it had all seemed, well, if not normal, at least not totally alien. But taking in the full reflection of himself there was no way to ignore the impact those small differences made when put together in one package. One big package. It was truly a shock to him, his image in the mirror. Strange that he should be such a stranger to his reflection, but true nonetheless.

Long limbs, muscles tautly defined and covered with a silky fur-like coating -- he couldn’t help but see it as that, though that wasn’t really accurate. With his long mane of hair flowing about his oh-so-different face, he looked positively wild. Like his feet, his hands were large, yet somehow deceptively delicate looking, the tendons clearly visible, leading downward to long fingers tipped by sharp nails. The contrast only served to increase the perception of deadly danger.

All of this he had previously inspected just moments before, yet now, seen in it’s entirety, somehow it looked radically different, far less acceptable and far more dangerous. He looked so big, so powerful, the strength and grace of each ligament perfectly balanced. There was an intriguing logic to his body, a symmetry that he couldn’t deny. The patterns of hair, thick in some places, thin to almost absent in others, looked right, as did the strong muscles along his full length. He found himself both astonished and appalled. Astonished that this image he had avoided for so long was not nearly as repulsive to him as he had thought it would be, and appalled by the very reverse thought. What he saw and what Catherine saw would in all likelihood be two very different things. He knew this body well, despite his avoidance of mirrors; it felt natural to him, it felt right. But Catherine...

Anxious now with these thoughts, he finally sought out that last bit of his anatomy that he had consciously avoided throughout this exercise. The thick hair on his chest narrowed down in a line along his torso, widening once again at his groin to supply a soft, protective bed for his penis. Completely hairless, it looked quite vulnerable, almost as if it were on display amidst the lush thickness of tawny bronze hair surrounding it. Even in this relaxed state, though, there was no denying that here, as elsewhere about him, he wasn’t exactly within the normal range of human expectations. True, he was well proportioned to the rest of his body...

He couldn’t complete the thought, his eyes squeezed tightly closed. This was impossible. What had he been thinking of to imagine that this might work? Oh, he knew very well that it was at least theoretically possible, but there was also a very real danger, one that would essentially remain unknown and untested until they had taken that last step and thrown all caution to the wind. How could he possibly place her in such jeopardy? It didn’t matter what the potential pleasures to be gained were, nothing could justify the risk, nothing.

Don’t stop now. Go on.

The voice inside was insistent, and he opened his eyes to once more appraise the image in the glass. In contrast to the hairless, sensitive skin of his inner thighs and penis, his testicles, almost hidden beneath the fullness of his pubic hair, were covered with a very soft, very fine, almost down-like coating. He was vividly aware of the soft sensation of them against the smooth skin of his inner thighs now that his attention was centered there. Slowly, tentatively, the fingers of one hand stroked through the thick hair at his groin, assessing the silky-soft texture there.

He couldn’t help but compare it to the silky but springy consistency of Catherine’s dusky curls. An image flashed in his mind of that awful time below, in the aftermath of the fall. He’d washed the blood away from her body, then sutured the terrible gash closed. He could still feel her flesh beneath his hands even now, though with the danger now passed, the memory of that sensation inspired awe rather than fear. He closed his eyes, letting the feel of her flood through him. Without conscious thought his hand drifted further down to gently cup the heavy sac nestled between his thighs. A whispered groan floated out to the fill the chamber. His body was even silkier here, and very warm.

His fingers moved from there to the bare skin of his inner thighs, stroking that nakedness, feeling these myriad textures and imaging how they might appear to Catherine. That thought, in conjunction with his intimate touch, made him gasp, his startled gaze meeting that of the mirrored reflection as if seeking some counsel there. Whether he found it in his own likeness or from the voice within, he couldn’t say, but he didn’t stop there. Slowly his fingers moved upward, trailing the length of his sex, an image of Catherine firmly ingrained in his mind’s eye. His body tingled deliciously at that touch, so seldom felt, and his response was instantaneous.

Despite the dream which had woken him earlier this night, and the events in the bathing pool that followed, his erection was swelling again, driven by no more than the most fleeting touch of his own hand and the warmth Catherine’s presence always inspired through their bond. His hand was still now, simply cupping the tumescent flesh, but his body’s response continued to build, as if no more than that small beginning had been required to set in motion the rest. The soft flesh filled rapidly, and within seconds was thick and steely hard in his palm. The skin was taut and extremely silky. Heat radiated off it. Vincent could swear he felt a pulsing throb along its length and deep within. His eyes drifted closed as a soft groan was pulled from him.

Somewhere deeper yet he felt the pull of that other nature, the one that emerged whenever his protective strength was required. The fact that it had appeared now, in the midst of this sensual exploration, frightened him. It was powerful and primal and unlike him, it was not afraid. Not of anything.

The other’s total lack of fear somehow mitigated his own, and when he opened his eyes to study his reflection once more, it was with a languorous look that stunned the part of him that was suddenly as speechless as the other had always been. He had looked big and powerful when he’d first begun this journey, but now his muscles were expanding before his very eyes, his whole body responding to the passion filling him. His upper chest appeared a full eight inches broader and his abdomen wore washboard-like ripples that were astonishing in their magnificent detail. His legs, with thigh and calf muscles tautly ripped, seemed longer and stronger than ever.

The perpetrator of this shocking change strained outward, thick and long and pulsing with hot blood, the potent center of his virile masculinity. As if he had no control over his actions, his hand closed over the throbbing length and he watched as he began to stroke with an increasing firmness. A gasping groan was pulled from him at the erotic sight before him and the sensation of pleasure filling him. Images of Catherine tugged at his mind and he closed his eyes and gave in to the fantasy for the second time this night. It was she standing before him, her silky body brushing his as her hands caressed his hot sex. He felt more than heard her whispered yearnings, urging him on to a rapidly approaching completion.

"Catherine..."

His voice was hoarse and low and almost guttural in its primitive tone.

Catherine...

She heard him calling her, the low tones of his voice soft and almost indistinct, but compelling beyond all reason. The warm haze enfolding her began to retreat, light displacing dark, and soon she found herself standing in the entrance of his chamber. At the first sight of Vincent within she gasped with astonished incredulity. He stood with his back to her, barely more than ten feet away and he was completely naked. Even more difficult to accept was the presence of the mirror before him, through which he so clearly perused his unclothed form. The questions swirling through her disappeared abruptly, all her attention now avidly centered on the clear view she had of him from the back, and, through the mirror’s reflection, from the front.

He was magnificent. She felt her body quickening, its response to him inevitable and unstoppable. He was so beautiful, so incredibly masculine and virile. She ached to trace her hands across the length of him, caressing each muscled plane and silky inch of his body. Her mouth felt parched and her throat burned -- how she wanted him. Through the mirror she saw his swelling erection, saw Vincent’s fingers skimming lightly over it, and she started forward abruptly, untying her robe and slipping it off her shoulders as she approached him. Beneath it she was naked.

In seconds she stood before him, but it wasn’t until she brushed his hands aside to replace them with her own that he opened his eyes and discovered her before him. The look he gave her sent ecstatic convulsions shuddering through her, culminating in the tender sheath at her very center. He stared deep into her eyes, surprised -- and yet not -- to find her there. Her fingers moved gently, caressing his pulsing erection and his expression deepened to one of pure, blissful pleasure. She saw acceptance there. She saw an urgent hunger building. Without a word he communicated his need to her and she moved immediately to meet that need, to bring him the completion he so craved.

She touched him with such passion, first light and tender, then shifting quickly to a strong grip that shocked his body with a stunning gasp. The fingers of her other hand skimmed though the silky hair at his groin, tugging teasingly at it, the sensation somewhere between pain and an ecstatic bliss, then moved further down to cup and stroke the tight, round fullness between his thighs. He spread his feet further apart, suddenly aware of a constricting pressure building at the apex.

"Oh, yes, Catherine, yes..."

When it felt as if he couldn’t last a moment longer, her hand released his pulsing shaft and trailed up his torso to stroke across his chest, searching out the aching tips of his nipples, rubbing them firmly to bring forth spiraling tingles of passionate pleasure.

"Oh, Catherine..."

A moment later her hand slid back down his body to hold him in a strong grip, her caressing touch urging a wildly heated response from his body in a way that was completely irresistible to him. He needed this so badly... wanted it… wanted her...

His flesh was hot and thick and throbbing with blood, a pulsing rhythm that vibrated through him and into her own body, through their tingling bond. She couldn’t believe he was actually letting her touch him this way. He was so open to her, so accepting of the intimate caresses she bestowed upon him. And his body was so magnificent. She felt like an acolyte worshipping her god, and she knew, as she took in the sight of him before her, golden and strong, that she would have it no other way for all the days of her life. She would worship him with every fiber of her being, with her heart and her body and soul, until the day she died.

With each passing moment she grew bolder in her actions until finally she was rewarded with a gasping groan. His breath panted laboriously now, growls emerging to mix with the virile, sensual sounds escaping him. He felt so good, so hot and silky. One hand slid lower to cup the taut globes nestled below and she shuddered at the downy heat of them, tenderly stroking him all over as his growls intensified.

She didn’t want to let any part of him go, but her fingers ached to explore the lush thickness of his chest hair. She’d wanted that so badly, ever since that night they’d shared a bath several weeks ago. She released his pulsing shaft and her fingers delved into the tawny thatch of hair. Her other hand still cupped him gently and the silky feel of him beneath her palms, both above and below, almost made her swoon. Swaying dizzily, she clutched at him and he gasped in response. The hand at his chest loosened its grip – though the one below did not – and continued on, finding and caressing the taut tips of his breasts, wanting the taste of him against her tongue. A sudden urgency quickened through her, though, drawing her gaze back down to his groin, and she left that broad expanse, returning at once to the ardent flesh which so clearly demanded her immediate and total attention. She enclosed him tightly and began to stroke strongly, focusing completely now on his approaching release, needing to give this to him, wanting to watch his passionate response. Through the bond she felt its rapid approach, felt the actual change in his body, and her hands quickened upon him.

Vincent gasped hoarsely for air now, his head thrown back while his body strained toward her, toward her questing hands and tender fingers. She could clearly see that he needed her now, yes now…

"Please, Catherine, now, yes now..."

He felt the brush of her silky nakedness against his own and her warm breath pulsed against his ear with reassuring murmurs as her hands worked their magic on him, rushing him onward to his release, urging him to let go, to surrender himself to her completely.

"Yes, oh yes..."

His moaning whimpers grew until a groaning growl filled the chamber and echoed hauntingly off the walls to reverberate in his own ears, the cry an impassioned plea that only added to his growing pleasure. In an instant he felt the change, felt his flesh surging strongly in her hands, felt the tightness deep inside pulse and give way in a shuddering burst, followed quickly by a hot stream that traced his turgid length, leaving a burning ecstasy in its wake.

"Catherine!"

His groaning growls escalated to a wind-swept roar and his throbbing erection surged in her hands. An explosive firestorm engulfed her and she cried out, feeling every pulsing response of his release. His reaction was so intense that her knees gave out. She fell into nothingness, a depthless, endless night closing over her and drawing her down to the utter stillness of contented, bliss-filled sleep.

"Catherine!"

An agonizing pleasure exploded within, encompassing him completely in its luxurious, sensuous grip. It went on and on, and when the last residual shivers were spent, he found himself kneeling upon his chamber floor before the silent mirror, naked, vulnerable, and alone.

"Catherine," he whispered, an aching note of longing in his voice.

God, how he needed her.