Un printemps de célébrations

A springtime of celebrations

Vienna had much to celebrate, that Spring—which was, visually speaking, an especially verdant and arresting season—although few of its citizens knew of the events that had transpired, and the consequences of all that followed. 

Die Macht had been foiled. Its members had been disabused of their confusions, redeemed from the errors of their ways. To the surprise of all—all but themselves, that is—Herr Köhler and Monsieur Georges had, in the end, become very dear friends. With the dark, tenebrous clouds of his guises removed, and his innermost kindness revealed, their capacity for connection revealed itself like the light of the sun in the wake of a storm. 

After all that had befallen the city—Die Adler its guardian angels, Monsieur Georges and the Contessa its unsung heroes—a space opened up for new endeavors to arise. Monsieur Georges returned to his ordinary schedule of being available in the Café Landtmann. He kept in touch with the other members of Die Adler, being advised of various developments regarding their concerns (and that of the Imago as a whole), and weighing in on specific matters, decisions, and deliberations that demanded his attention as Der Augur. 

All of this was very natural for him—as if he’d lived for decades, not months and years, in Vienna; as if he’d always been Der Augur, had always been a part of Die Adler. In a way, his prior employment as a financier was using but a fraction of his powers, a mere drop of the ocean of gifts his heart was born to bestow upon the world. Here in Vienna, in connection with Die Adler, he could finally come into the full breadth and extent of what he’d come to this Earth to do. 

It brought him great joy to continue his work, helping specific individuals with the trials that faced them in their lives. He was benefited in this by the aid of the new skills and talents he’d developed as Der Augur. When a particularly perplexing problem arose, he could always draw on the aid of Das Buch and Der Zauberstab, which saw plainly what he could not himself see, and set it in the context of the larger wholes that he found himself connected to. Each time he consulted them, he found his intuitive faculties deepened, like the soil of a field that had been plowed once more in the height of a new season.

But what brought him the most joy was the dearest and most precious occurrence of all: that he found himself spending more and more time with Der Mond, the Contessa. At the close of his days at the Café Landtmann, she would meet him there, and they would wander the streets near it—or perhaps find themselves going to the Belvedere-Schlossgarten, seeking solace in its shaded paths. On special days, they would make a trip to the Kahlenberg, climbing its cobblestone paths, taking in the sight of the expanse of Vienna below—the Danube cutting its silver path through the city that had brought them together.

For all their gifts, for all their talents, Monsieur Georges et son amour were also humans, totally ordinary humans—humans with hearts and bodies, feelings and desires. And their hearts found more and more love for each other with each passing week. For as clear and confident as she had shown herself to be in her role as Der Mond, by Monsieur Georges’ side, the Contessa Valentina Savoia di Torina could be unexpectedly demure, blushing often, and finding it difficult to make eye contact. 

Often, she would pick flowers for him, granting him a bouquet of wildflowers as a gift. He, in turn, would bring her gifts—books that he suspected she might enjoy, tickets to accompany him to a concert, or sometimes little drawings from his walks. Her countenance would light up, resplendent with joy and beauty; her voice would ring out with mellifluous, melodic delight. 

For both of them, their connection took on an ineffable significance. Die Poetik had revealed to both of them that this resonance was built on the echoes of lives past, the consequence of actions taken in former times and worlds—and also due to the weight of all that was to come, in this life and in future lives, for the both of them.

Often, their walks would end at the home of the Contessa. She maintained an elegant residence in the Palais Todesco, on the west side of the Kärntner Straße. The palazzo's façade, with its ornate columns and sculpted figures, befitted her noble Italian heritage; its proximity to the Staatsoper suited her love of music and the arts. Her apartments occupied the piano nobile, its grand first floor—their high-ceilinged rooms adorned with frescoes and gilt mirrors that caught the afternoon light. Though she had traveled extensively between Vienna and her family estates in Italy, she had made this corner of Vienna her own, filling the rooms with treasures from her homeland—Murano glass from her cousin the Conte's workshops, volumes of Italian poetry, and paintings of the Venetian countryside. 

They spent many evenings there, or sometimes at Monsieur Georges’ flat. They shared many meals and abundant laughter, countless hours and numerous precious, intimate conversations. The Contessa told Monsieur Georges of her childhood in Italy, her studies, of her friendships and endeavors, of the feelings and the concerns that weighed on her heart. Monsieur Georges told her of Paris, his travels, the aid he gave to many at the Café Landtmann, of his intuitive powers and his dreams for the future. 

With each conversation, their hearts drew closer and closer. They found themselves becoming very dear friends, who knew more and more of each others’ lives and souls with each passing day and week.

Although their visits were innocent enough to begin with, the tension between them was felt by the both of them. Within several weeks of Monsieur Georges’ visits to the Contessa's dwelling in the Palais Todesco, they began to hold hands on their walks, tentatively at first, then delightedly.

One evening, they shared an especially lovely dinner together at a restaurant. Over a meal, their conversation seemed to fold time itself. Every moment was an eternity, and yet it all went by so fast all the same.

They made each other feel so much—so seen, so understood. They felt from each other a deep sense of conviction, the belief each had in the other—all that they saw in their hearts, all their wisdom and love, all that sought to be given through the vessels of their lives. How could love not begin to spark in their hearts?

On reaching the Contessa's home, she offered Monsieur Georges some tea, which he happily accepted. They sat down together, drinking their tea, their bodies nuzzled up against each other.

They were quiet there, together, for a time. Monsieur Georges could not begin to speak. He couldn't bear to let his words tarnish that precious moment. He just let himself feel her body against his, and the quiet delight in his heart. He listened to the Contessa breathing, and waited—not needing anything from her, yet wanting everything with her.

It was the Contessa Valentina who broke the silence, eventually. Somehow, intuitively, knowingly, she named the desire on his heart—in the room—speaking directly to it, inquiring of it.

“What do you want from me?,” she asked. “What do you want with me? What do you want, Monsieur Georges?”

Monsieur Georges paused, to feel the truth, to find the courage to speak it. Thus far, every time he had spoken his truth, it had brought them closer. His intensity had given her plenty of opportunities to push him away, to reject him in his fullness as too much, not right, not good. But here they were, together—here she was, the Contessa Valentina, next to him, Monsieur Georges, asking earnestly of his heart's desire.

“I want to know why we were drawn into each other's lives. I want to know why I have such intensity of resonance and draw towards you. I want to know why you visit my dreams so often, and with such weight and gravity.”

“I want to see you deeply, to solve the mysteries I see in you but cannot find words for, to find renewed awe and wonder at the deeper mysteries I will find underneath.”

“I want to know where you go with your life, what you do, what you dream and what you accomplish. I want to be there for it, to witness you in your successes and to comfort you in your challenges. I want to help you in all the ways I can, and to receive your aid also. I want to witness what comes of that, what it makes possible.”

“Above all, I want to honor this conviction I have of your significance in my life, of mine in yours, and to see what comes of it.”

“I want to find the connection that feels good for both of us, the right relationship, the bond that brings us both joy and the whole world benefit. I want to live that fully, whether it is as your friend or collaborator, student or teacher, peer or ally, lover or partner. I want you in my life, and I want to be in yours.”

“I want everything we can safely, kindly, joyfully summon for ourselves, and nothing that harms us or others. That is what I want, in all my honesty, in all its totality. Nothing less than that, and nothing more.”

“And what do you want, my dear Valentina?”

The Contessa was silent for a time, taking in all that Monsieur Georges had spoken. He was testy and uncomfortable in the silence, as she looked in his eyes, as she weighed his words, and also a response. 

He wondered how his words found her, and tried to summon a modicum of patience, before finding that what he could muster was not nearly enough.

“That's very sweet, Monsieur Georges. I don't know about all that. I do know that I want to kiss you.”

She leaned in, and kissed him. Her lips were soft and sweet, and they danced upon his. It was a relief for them both to finally feel each other’s lips, to know the love of their beloved through them.

Their kisses were gentle and tender, exploratory, playful—at least for a time. And then, suddenly, they were not. Their kisses took on a frenzied intensity and burning passion neither had ever felt before, like ancient humans discovering fire for the very first time.

Monsieur Georges ran his hands through Valentina's hair, along her back, down her arms, over her legs. She pulled him towards her, massaging his chest, tugging his muscles, drawing him into her.

His hands were at her hips when she took them in hers, and moved them over her breasts. Monsieur Georges touched them, gently, lovingly, then firmly, weighing and kneading them.

She reached for the straps of her top, and took it off. Seeing her astonished him: her overflowing beautiful red hair, the sparkling constellation of the freckles on her skin, and the sweet, sweet sight of her beautiful, precious breasts, laid bare before him.

With her top removed, all she was wearing was her dress, flowing and hugging her hips, and swaying over his limbs as she sat on his lap, leaning in once more, moving her weight against him.

They kissed once more, her tongue exploring his mouth, his hands touching her—her breasts, her ass. She could feel his penis, erect in his trousers, and she moved herself firmly against it—somehow determined, vigorous, yearning, teasing, and patient, all at once.

She placed her hand over his manhood, and started caressing it through his trousers. They kept kissing for a time, until she knelt down, and unzipped his pants. She found his member, and took it out. She stroked it, exploring it for the first time. 

Monsieur Georges stammered and shivered at her touch, unable to speak. And then she put its head up into her mouth. He was overwhelmed with pleasure, amazed at this gift.

She reached under her dress, and began to touch herself as she fellated him, gyrating her hips into and on her own fingers.

She noticed with ease as he came close to climaxing, and stopped to stand. She knew what she wanted, and wordlessly, she lifted her womanhood to his seated face, mounting herself atop his lips and tongue. He happily returned the pleasure and love she had given him. 

He loved tasting her, feeling her juices, running his tongue over her clitoris and her vaginal lips. He moved his hands so he could begin fingering her while he lapped at her. He loved hearing her moan; feeling her sway her hips to receive more and more of the pleasure he was giving her, all that she could take.

Eventually, she sat up, and grabbed his manhood, as if it were a handle and he her property. She looked at him, smiling, and led him upstairs, into her bedroom. 

Here, at last, they shed all their clothes. The Contessa Valentina Savoia di Torina fell into her bed, and looked up at her lover. 

Monsieur Georges had the sudden sense, looking at her lying there, her beautiful naked body sprawled atop the beautiful linen, that she was a flower, a beautiful rose blooming in springtime, that he had the singular pleasure of smelling but never of owning. She was her own woman, and it was a privilege and an honor for him to be there with her in this way, to see her like that, to have the opportunity to love her like so.

For all his high-minded sentimentality, they were also animals, and Valentina practically growled at him to make love to her. He joined her in the bed, looking at her, and she nodded—this was what she wanted. 

He entered her, slowly, easing his way into her, feeling each sensation with full clarity, moment of pleasure after moment of pleasure. She gasped, feeling him, taking him inside her, letting him fill her.

There, making love for the first time in her bed chambers, their limbs and bodies were joined as one. They were less as two and more as one, a united dyad that moved in harmony, a larger body filled with mutual pleasure, connection, and love.

It would be difficult to describe the way they moved together, the heights of pleasure they found together. Neither had ever felt that before, and somehow, they had always known it. 

Monsieur Georges had always known the Contessa, and she had always known him, life after life, love after love. This was merely their first consummation in this form, this incarnation; it was both a triumphant return and a familiar victory.

Afterwards, they lay in bed, their bodies right up against each other, Valentina wrapped in his arms. Their bodies were filled with pleasure, and their hearts with love, as two and also as one.

“Valentina?” Monsieur Georges said, her name a question.

“Yes, my love?” she said, her question an answer.

“I only ever want to do this forever.”

“Nothing lasts forever, dear,” she said, laughing. “What could you possibly mean?”

“Will you marry me?” he asked. “I realize it's soon. I know it's a weighty proposition.”

“But my heart knows. I want you. We could bring so much joy into our lives, so much love into the world. We have so much depth and power between us—think of the benefit we could have, as husband and wife, over the decades of our lives. I would be a good husband to you—honest, kind, loving, devoted always.”

“Will you be my love? Will you be my wife?”

She laughed once more, her naked body filled with surprise and confusion and overwhelm.

“Yes,” she replied, overcome with sudden conviction. “I will. I will.”

And with that, on the eve of their first kiss and also their first time making love, the two were engaged. 

Some would perhaps say they were fools, for embarking on the grand adventure of marriage so swiftly. Others might dare to disagree.

Solon said that you cannot judge a man as happy until after he has died. Their marriage would be judged after it ended, by choice or death. And somehow, in Monsieur Georges' heart, he knew with faith and confidence that their union would prove strong—that they would show the world a rare and precious love. It would be a mere consequence of their own hearts, of what goodness and care they had already tasted together, of the virtue and strength they had cultivated across lives and deepened already in this one, also. 

What a blessing it was, for them to encounter each other once more! What a blessing, to be able to spend time together—not just that one happy evening, but the remaining years of their life!