How hard it is to talk about the most important things. Especially since Gwydion’s so easy to be silent with, letting the deeper meanings underneath all those words I love to hide behind drift between us like tides from one shore to another.
I could describe Him to you: the graceful curve of His hands as He gestures to emphasize a point. His eyes, the blue of oceans, the green of forests, the gray of storm clouds. The way His cheek rasps against mine in the morning before He’s had a chance to shave. He winces when I try to pronounce anything in Welsh, and has Opinions about the way certain events in the Mabinogi really took place. He chain-smokes when He’s stressed, likes pigs a suspicious amount, and flatly refuses to drink any wine that comes from a box.
But all of that is what He’s like, not what He is. And what He is, more than anything else, is Mine. Mine, the way I’m His.
Some nights, that’s the only word that passes between us, gasped into the stolen intervals between kiss and kiss. Mine. Mine. Mine. O most precious, my dear one. My hand, my heart. MINE.
There’s a distinction in many other languages that English lacks: the difference between having something that you can use, break, sell, discard, leave behind, lose, forget; and having something that’s too deeply a part of you to ever be torn away.
It’s a nuance that could bring clarity to so many debates about what it means to be owned by a God, particularly given the scandalized fascination with slavery and BDSM that inevitably seems to creep into these discussions. Sometimes, it’s really not about any of that at all, but as I said, it’s hard to talk about what’s most important. I can try, though.
I’d like you to be My ambassador, He said one day, apropos of nothing much, with a small smile that didn’t fade even when I smugly informed Him that that word was clearly French in origin and so He couldn’t possibly given me the correct term for whatever it was He wanted from me.
I didn’t remain smug for long, though. An etymological perusal revealed that the word ambassador is ultimately derived from the Celtic word ambactos–servant, follower, vassal. And as an added bonus, the name of one of Gwydion’s Brothers, Amaethon the Great Plowman, comes from the same root, as well.
He didn’t gloat, exactly–He never does–but His satisfaction at my realization was palpable nonetheless.
But what answer could I give? At that point, our trust in each other had only just been rebuilt to a workable level, the wounds we’d sustained raw and barely clotted over. His offer appealed to me, more than I wanted to admit, but my heart was still bruised; even though what had happened hadn’t been His fault, there was still enough lingering uncertainty that handing myself over to Him so utterly seemed too much of a risk.
He gave me time to reach my decision, though–which mostly meant that He held me gently while I fought within myself. I wrestled with the endless shadows that wore His face–rapist, liar, betrayer, user–bringing down each one with my bare hands until there was nothing left but Him, and me, and the only answer that made sense anymore: yes, and yes, and always, ten thousand times, yes.
I wear no collar for Him, nor any other mark so obvious to most who’d think to look. The direct commands He’s given me could be counted on one hand, with fingers to spare. We have no set rules for how we interact, no protocols of proper behavior to follow to the letter.
And yet I call Him my King, my Lord. He is the only Power I’ll kneel before, and His hand resting on my head is a better reward for this devotion than the gold and jewels of all the Worlds combined. He owns me as surely and completely as He owns the blood in His veins, His exquisitely formed hands, the heart that beats so unerringly in His chest, and cares for me in kind.
Mine. So many layers of meaning in such a small word. But no other could come close to something so important, so utterly essential:
Mine. Mine. Mine. Mine, as I am His; His, as He is Mine. Always.