Elchanan caught by guile, cut down by lust
Elchanan has always liked to be wanted.
So the way this full-gold stranger looks at him—sharp and hungry, his eyes dark like the moon on water, the edge of his lips curling up oh-so-slight—Elchanan’s heart thrills like a plucked string. Whatever it is that holds his body together is beginning to vibrate. When he takes his seat in one swift motion, the movement is punctuated by a long glance—heavy with unconcealed interest, just as strong and intent as his partner’s.
Even if Vercingtorix’s comment that it would be kind for some was meant as a threat, Elchanan would not have heard it.
Already he is in love.
(Or as in love as he can ever manage to be.)
This man, whoever he is, will be Elchanan’s next conquest. The priest is the kind of man who does not shy from a challenge, especially not one so good-looking. Whether the stranger feels the same is completely besides the point. Elchanan does not know fear: not of the task at hand, nor of the obstacle of the table between them, nor of the edge in the foreigner’s voice that sounds heartbreakingly close to a dare.
He takes a deliberate sip of tea. Over the rim of the cup, through the curling steam that rises from its surface, the rich brown of his eyes burn into blue of Vercingtorix’s. “I suppose,” Elchanan says meditatively. Another sip. He rips off a piece of bread and offers it across the table. “Not originally. But now? Sure. Why not.”
It’s all relative, isn’t it? The truth, Elchanan tells himself, does not matter. Perhaps in other places. On the witness stand, or under questioning, or telling the story of one's life to a scribe. Perhaps in other places, but not here.
The only thing that matters here is saying the right thing to keep his new project interested.
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