Archive of Our Own ^beta

The moonlight filtered in through the window, casting deep shadows upon the heavy drapes. Heloise was wakeful, unable to sleep despite the late hour. Her mind was uneasy; a troubled mind was a reflection of a troubled spirit, and neither lent itself to academic pursuits. How could she concentrate on her studies if her own thoughts were so confusing?

She replayed her earlier tutoring session with Abelard repeatedly in her mind. Calling it a tutoring session would be false. What does one call such a thing as she experienced? He confessed his feelings unto her, and how she wished he had refrained. How was she supposed to believe him sincere? She was nineteen; she was no young girl. She was a woman and knew of the ways of men.

But had he not seemed sincere? He possessed the merit she craved in a man, and the intelligence. He claimed her beauty stirred passion in him; his intelligence stirred passion within her. And what if he spoke the truth? He seemed so earnest, so genuine during his confession. She could not forget the spreading blush across his cheeks, the subtle rise in color, and the look on his face as he dropped to his knees before her.

She wanted to believe him, oh how she wanted to believe him.

But this was wrong, morally, spiritually, and philosophically wrong. A chill ran through her body as she contemplated what may have transpired had her uncle not interrupted at that opportune moment.

She knew what she had to do. As a lady of philosophy, she had to ignore her irrational feelings. Logic dictated reasoned interactions, and she knew that what was stirring was anything but rational.

Tomorrow, she would quell any feelings he may have for her, once and for all.

*

Heloise entered the library and saw Abelard bent over a table, scribbling deliberately on a wax tablet. As her footsteps echoed through the quiet hall, he began rubbing out his markings. Curious, she attempted to peer over his shoulder and catch a glimpse of the words, but he stealthily hid them from her view.

“What were you writing?” she asked, taking the seat across the table.

“Vernacular musings not worth placing on parchment.” He set the tablet on the table.

“Very well.” She slid the tablet towards herself and picked up the stylus. “Shall we continue with Isidore of Seville’s Etymologiae? I believe we ended on book fourteen as we discussed geography.”

He looked at her with an expression she had spied on his face before. After yesterday, she knew what that look meant. There was a light in his eyes that betrayed not only the vivacity of his mind, but of his soul – and feelings – as well. Her body flushed, sensation covering her extremities, but she dutifully ignored it. Her resolve was firm.

“Oh, if only we were discussing book three! My heart is consumed by the music of love and no other topic can satisfy the melody in my soul.”

Heloise set the tablet on the table and looked at Abelard evenly. “Your actions reflect that your mind has lost all sense of reason.”

“No, that is just it, my charming Heloise. I have finally achieved reason that I have lacked in each previous day! That tyrant of my mind – and yes, I refer to love! – has freed me from the constraints of the wisdom of men who do not feel, but only think with their minds. I have not abandoned philosophy completely, for I still understand the merits of reason and rhetoric, but I question why anyone would devote their life to the pursuit of erasing all passion and emotional feeling towards one whose beauty has caused greater men to reject Aristotle and embrace the words of Ovid!”

Heloise shook her head. “Master Abelard – “

“Please, dear Heloise, call me Peter, I beg you. To hear my Christian name fall from those lips would give me the greatest pleasure I have ever known.”

“Peter,” she began, and he fell again to his knees before her, clasping her hands in his own. “You know not what you say. Perhaps you are not well. Your humors appear to be unbalanced because you are acting sanguine and impulsive.”

“You are wrong. My humors are perfectly balanced.”

“Then I must speak reason so you can deter your pleasure-seeking follies. You speak of my beauty? Did not Socrates say that beauty is a short-lived tyranny?”

“And you are my captor, for just as Socrates said, your beauty has been the bait which with delight allures man to enlarge his kind. You have enlarged my passion beyond what I have ever dreamed.”

“I believe Socrates would not agree with your interpretation of his words, Mast – Peter. I believe Socrates would argue it as a warning against the pleasures of the flesh and the trap of beauty.”

“Socrates never experienced the happiness of remaining in your company for an afternoon.”

“In Consolation of Philosophy, Boethius contends that happiness comes from within, not from the fickle fortunes of earthly desires,” Heloise pointed out. Abelard slid his fingers underneath the hem of her sleeve, stroking the inside skin of her wrist lightly. His other hand dropped to his side, then underneath the hem of her skirt to gently touch her calf. Her intake of breath was audible, but she said nothing to stop him.

“Boethius also stated that the Wheel of Fortune turns without hesitation. Lady Fortune cares not for our happiness, and every happiness will eventually revolve into unhappiness, so should we not then indulge happiness while we live atop the Wheel of Fortune?” His hand slid farther up her leg, his fingertips trailing against the back of her knee, then around to rest on her kneecap. The other hand now lifted to her exposed neck, two fingers tracing the line of her collarbone.

“The answer is not to indulge,” she explained, her breathing beginning to become labored. “The key to a good life is to cultivate indifference to good and bad fortune and understand bad fortune gives way to good fortune until the cycle is repeated again.”

His face was closer to hers, and his eyes brighter than she had ever seen them before. Her mind was conflicted. Should she listen to reason and halt his advances? But something other than reason controlled her mind and body. And Abelard - Peter - the most intelligent mind she had ever known, was pursuing his own pleasure. Could that make it worth following?

She continued, his fingers toying with the edge of her bodice. “The separation of Boethius and Lady Philosophy instructs us that our reasoned mind and our emotional side are two separate governing forces, with one triumphing over the other. Reason should always triumph.”

“How can ignoring our passion be reasonable?” His hand slid from her knee, up along the sensitive flesh of her inner thigh. Her breathing was loud now, and her mind becoming clouded with her desire for him. How could she continue to debate with him when she could not think clearly? She did not like to lose philosophical debates to him, and she would not now. Even if he was playing dirty. “King Alfred’s translation,” he continued, “refigured Lady Philosophy into the mind of Boethius, which is the true nature of things, though Boethius’s allegory alluded to that. If the mind and reason are not separate but one in the same, then how can one be rational and the other not?”

“King Alfred was no philosopher,” Heloise pointed out.

“Valid point, my charming pupil.” Abelard removed his fingers from the edge of her bodice and boldly cupped her breast.

“This behavior, which goes beyond all reason, just reflects his assertion that unreasoned and unfamiliar behavior is primal and bestial, completely inhuman.”

Abelard shook his head, kneading her breast more firmly. “No, if it was inhuman, we would not feel these feelings. Can’t see you what this is? Fate. We were predestined to meet, and to fall in love. As Augustine and Boethius argue, we have no free will. Our paths are laid out before us, and obviously our paths include one another. We are not in control of our actions; they have been decided for us, and fight as we might, it will all end up the same. I will have you, and you will have me, and we will be in love.”

“Oh, Peter,” she breathed, her resolve breaking. He closed the distance between their mouths, kissing her completely. She had heard tales of kissing between a man and a woman, but no story did the action justice. His lips were soft, yet forceful, his tongue velvet and warm. He smelled of wood and horses, and tasted of honey.

Both his hands beneath her skirt now, they made quick work of her undergarments and she gasped when his hands touched her bare skin. “Listening to your sounds is the greatest music ever composed,” he said, his hand slipping between her legs and touching her where no one had before. She gripped him for support, her fists curling into his tunic, as his fingers did things she had never imagined possible. All her studies had not prepared her for this, all the philosophy ever written unable to explain what was happening between them. And when he lifted her and lay her back against the table, pushing her skirts around her waist and penetrating her, she began to understand things she had never understood before. She began to understand Platonic philosophy, because that is what she and Peter were. She knew they both existed, and she felt him exist inside her right now, the slow thrust and pull, causing her body to feel him in every pore. The knowledge she had lacked before now also became increasingly real. She knew she loved him, he loved her, and the evidence was in his voice, his touch, his eyes. She understood the mingling of the visible and intelligible worlds, the intertwining of materiality and transcendence. She felt him physically, his breath against her neck, his body filling hers, but they had been elevated to another, immaterial plane, beyond anything earthly. Reason was not separate from them; reason and mind were one, as she and Peter were one.

-fin