Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  Flowridia shook her head. “Normally he’s perfectly transparent.”

  “What recent behaviors, Flowers?”

  “Murishani and I . . .” She shook her head. “He doesn’t like me.” Ignoring Etolié’s frown, she continued forward.

  “You can always tell me—”

  “It’s—” Flowridia stopped, hands clenching the plate at the memory of dread. She remembered fear. She remembered her utter helplessness, knowing if Kah’Sheen had not appeared, she might have perished . . . or succumbed. “I’d rather not say it. But what matters is that Casvir wanted to protect me from the darker aspects of his kingdom. Murishani manipulated me into seeking it out for myself.”

  Etolié followed; Flowridia refused to look at her. “You have me awfully worried—”

  “None of it affects you or Staelash. Please, let it go.”

  When she did finally face Etolié, the Celestial stared at her as though they’d never met.

  Flowridia hit a growth spurt once as a child, wherein she shot up and slimmed like the weed she apparently was and had to receive an entirely new set of clothing at the orphanage. Her dresses had hung in awkward ways—too tight and too loose all at once, unable to reach her ankles.

  Staelash, she realized, fit her like her old dresses. She had grown in odd, inexpressible ways.

  “Who else can we deliver muffins to?” Flowridia asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence.

  “We can try and hunt down Sora if you really want. She watched the parade from a perch—namely, the balcony. I don’t know how involved with the festivities she’ll be.”

  Sora couldn’t hide forever. Flowridia wasn’t sure what she would say to the half-elf—hopefully nothing at all.

  But they passed Khastra’s old room, right as the half-demon exited. As gracefully as she could, Flowridia offered the plate to the undead general. “Muffin?”

  Khastra shook her head. “Your baking is delightful, but I cannot enjoy it as fully as I could in life. I will pass.” Her smile faltered when she glanced at Etolié. “Give Etolié my share.”

  “What, still worried about my skinny little ass?”

  Etolié’s palpable ire curdled Flowridia’s blood, but Khastra replied with a frank, “I am.”

  Etolié said nothing, instead opting to sneer. Khastra gave a polite nod before stepping away.

  When Khastra’s hooved footsteps stopped reverberating across the walls, Flowridia turned a steely glare to her Celestial friend. “Etolié, what’s going on?”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “You have been rude to her from the moment she’s arrived.” Flowridia recalled their tearful reunion months ago, Etolié’s shambled form, but watching her now . . . it was as though they hardly knew the other.

  Etolié’s lip trembled, and Flowridia realized she’d struck a nerve. “Truthfully, I don’t know, but I definitely don’t want to talk about this here.”

  Flowridia grabbed her arm and escorted her down the hallway, refusing to speak until the door to her own bedroom shut behind her. “You aren’t being yourself, Etolié.”

  Flowridia set the plate of muffins onto the mirrored vanity. The shift of power was jarring, but she shoved the thought away. Whatever her own cognitive dissonance, she loved Etolié still.

  “Ever since my visit to Nox’Kartha,” Etolié said stiffly, “I’ve been furious. And I don’t know why.”

  “Furious at Khastra?”

  “Maybe? I don’t understand it, Flowers. I was overwhelmed to know she was alive, and now I can’t stand to look at her.”

  Condemning words. Flowridia frowned. “Why are you angry with her?”

  Etolié crossed her thin arms, and Flowridia wondered if she still maintained an illusion on her appearance. She wondered if Etolié were well at all. “Why didn’t she tell me she was alive?” Etolié whispered, her red-rimmed eyes shedding no tears. “You knew. Most of Nox’Kartha knew. But not me, and I’m the only person in the world she even likes. Or not, given she wouldn’t tell me when I asked her to her face.”

  Etolié spoke out of bitterness. Flowridia’s hands turned nearly white as she clenched her fists, debating whether to respect Khastra’s wishes. “She had her reasons, and it isn’t my place to say anything.”

  “You always did keep a thousand secrets, Flowers.” Etolié shrugged and lowered her stare to the floor. “It never bothered me. But I won’t lie and say it doesn’t feel a little bit personal this time.”

  “Please, Etolié—”

  “Does she not trust me?” Etolié implored, suddenly facing her again. “Or is she throwing away everything about her past life?”

  “Neither of those,” Flowridia replied, yet she knew both statements were, in their own ways, entirely true.

  “Then, Flowers—” Etolié’s voice caught. Her fingers dug into her arms. With her jaw stiffened, she whispered, “I’ve barely slept since I came to visit you, and I don’t know why. And believe me, I fucking hate not knowing why. I’m supposed to eat, but I can’t—” Etolié’s fingers dug deep, and Flowridia worried she would draw blood. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with me. I generally make sure I’m too busy to figure it out. But, Flowers—” Her stance relaxed all at once, head falling slack. “I shouldn’t be unloading this on you. I’m supposed to be the adult.”

  “You’ve never been an adult, Etolié.” Flowridia said it with kindness and hoped Etolié received it as such.

  But the Celestial gave no reaction except her words. “If I asked her, would she tell me?”

  “No,” Flowridia said, knowing full well it was true. Internally, she contemplated the cost of her next words: to break Khastra’s trust, but for the chance to save her friendship with Etolié. “And if I tell you, will you apologize?”

  Etolié nodded, finally meeting her gaze.

  Flowridia was fond of Khastra, but she knew Etolié loved her more than anyone. She braced herself and said, “Did Khastra explain her biology to you?”

  “She has a clockwork heart and a few other tricks.”

  “She was an unprecedented experiment,” Flowridia explained, forcing her emotions to steady at the memory. “The clockwork heart was the fifth attempt at a heart transplant, the other four of which were biological. She was conscious for all of it, because as an undead, there wasn’t another option.”

  Etolié’s expression steadily filled with realization, her lavender eyes growing wide.

  “And in light of the unspeakable torture,” Flowridia whispered, “she didn’t want you to know, because she feared what your reaction would be. She never told me; Murishani showed me. I saw—” Her voice caught. Her fists clenched. Etolié’s face didn’t change. “First I watched her heart fail, and the agony it brought. But Murishani showed me the aftermath. It was, as I said, unspeakable. Khastra wanted to protect you from the truth and didn’t want to give you false hope if she died her permanent death after all.” Hesitation stopped her tongue, but the final phrase slipped out. “She certainly begged for it.”

  Etolié’s eyes glistened, but tears did not fall. She stared in silence, visibly contemplating Flowridia’s words.

  “But she knew she was doing you wrong,” Flowridia whispered. “She . . . She cares about you, Etolié. More than anyone else, I think.”

  She knew, but it was not her place to say. She wondered what Etolié’s reaction would be, to know that Khastra loved her so.

  Etolié gave a sharp nod. “I need to think,” she said, and she saw herself out.

  Flowridia hugged Demitri, silent and stable. “Either she’s about to rip Casvir’s head off, or I’ve actually managed to save their friendship.”

  I’m fully in support of that first one.

  She gripped his warm fur, forcing herself to laugh. “Never change, dearest Demitri.”

  She would leave Etolié to Etolié. There was somewhere important she needed to be.

  The soothing rustling of wind through shaded bushes and trees bespoke her ret
urn to her greatest joy. The plants sang at their reunion, despite winter’s chill. The wards had not waned, written into the earth itself, only strengthening with time as the plants grew deeper and taller.

  Flowridia passed through the invisible barrier, senses alight, tears welling amidst the joy she felt reunited with her sanctuary.

  Ana darted about, but at her word stayed within the barriers. The wards may not have faltered, but the slight imperfections of the plants stood out to her attuned mind. Flowridia brushed her fingers across parched gardenias, their vibrant white having dulled. With a gentle touch, she rubbed her fingers against the petals, silently asking what help she could give.

  Healing magic left her hand. The bush absorbed the potent dose, and Flowridia swore it stood physically taller, full of pride and joy. Flowridia kissed the center of a flower and left the bush alone.

  Demitri ducked to avoid branches and bushes, sniffing all the while. Your garden shrunk.

  “I suppose I’ll have to make it bigger.”

  Thalmus had cared for this place in her absence, or so he’d sworn. He had done what he could, she saw. Winter had done what winter would, but the magic in the earth held more influence than even the changing seasons—the plants still flourished, despite the biting cold.

  She noticed, then, her dearest creation, the unnamed breeding of moon lilies and gardenias, the ones that had dotted Ayla’s hair—wilted and browned. Flowridia fell to her knees, cupping one of the precious buds and kissing the side. “Please live,” she pled, feeling how the plant cried for sustenance, for life.

  She touched them, and she felt pain. The once vibrant blossoms were far nearer to death than to life.

  It wounded her, to lose something so beautiful and rare. The last perfect reminder of Ayla and her memory, and oh, it stung.

  Flowridia gripped the branches, purple mist swirling from her hands. She breathed out, and the same deep purple escaped her lips.

  When she inhaled, the flowers wilted, leaves and petals withering before her eyes.

  Flowridia breathed out again, giving life—or something like it—to the ruined plant. Immediately, the small flowers grew flush and vibrant, turning their petals to the sky.

  More beautiful than ever, in death. Fitting, given who they had been bred for. They would live on for eternity, sustained by dark magic.

  She clipped one of the gorgeous stems and wove it into her hair, then moved on to inspect the rest.

  * * *

  Etolié stayed underground for an indeterminable amount of time—long enough for the sun to set and the stars to shine. For a moment, her concentration failed, leaving her with the visual reality of her own withering form.

  She should be preparing for guests. She should be hostess-ing and entertaining and all those other things she was good at. Instead, collapsed beneath her skylight, Etolié wrapped her thumb and pointer finger around her bony wrist. Stress had taken a toll, one she refused, even now, to confront.

  Her favorite lie was to wax poetic on the energy she gained beneath the stars’ light, a manifestation of her heritage, but in truth she was a fraud who wanted the world to leave her the hell alone about her stress-eating habits—or lack thereof. Her hands fell back into the nest of scarves and blankets, the illusion returning of Etolié at her finest, the illusion Khastra saw through, again and again.

  And Lara, somehow. Etolié hadn’t questioned that one yet.

  She drank a stomach’s worth of ale and wondered when the hell she had lost her mind.

  “What the fuck is your obsession with my eating habits, hmm?! Not a fan of my skinny ass? Maybe you should just go to hell and mind your own fucking business!”

  But Khastra, who was a gods-damned brick wall, gently knelt before her, ignoring the vitriol Etolié spewed from her make-shift cave of toppled shelves. “You are lovely at any weight,” she said gently, perhaps unwilling to startle the feral animal Etolié had become, “but my own peace of mind prefers it be a healthy one.” She placed the dinner plate on the ground and slid it forward, just within arm’s reach. “I know it is not so simple, but I want you to know, I care for you dearly. I want you safe.”

  She pulled herself up and knew what she had to do.

  Khastra was not in her bedroom. She was not in the kitchen. This meant either Khastra was somewhere in that gaudy tent of Murishani’s or perhaps somewhere more sentimental.

  Khastra’s workspace sat outside the manor, built well before Thalmus decided to outdo her with a kiln. A place for peace, and for her gems, and Etolié had bothered her there a thousand times before. Once upon a time, they had gossiped about council members and foreign dignitaries all through the night.

  When Etolié peered through the dusty window, the lamplight spoke true—Khastra sat at her workbench, tidying the space. She wore no armor, simply a shirt and trousers and no shoes, because, well, when you had hooves, shoes seemed like more of a nuisance than anything.

  Etolié entered without knocking. “I thought I’d find you here, ya big lug.”

  Khastra smiled, somehow brighter than the lamp and the moon outside both. “Good to see you, Etolié.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked, but in her gut, she knew. Khastra’s gems were covered in dust but steadily being collected by the half-demon herself.

  “Cleaning,” she replied, affirming Etolié’s suspicions. “I have no need for this place. Now you can use it for whatever my replacement wishes.”

  She said it with no ire, only frankness. But Etolié shook her head. “No one could replace you.”

  Gods, that was sweet. Perhaps she was more drunk than she’d thought.

  “Listen,” Etolié continued, shaking her head at her own sentiments, “I’m here because Flowers seems to think I offended you this morning, and I told her she was crazy, so . . .”

  Khastra set down the pouches and gems she’d collected. With a resigned sigh, she said, “You did offend me.”

  “I’ve called you worse—”

  “But never out of anger.”

  So it was palpable. Etolié leaned back against the door, wishing she could phase through it and die from the sheer amount of boundless shame filling her. “Oh.”

  It was all she could manage.

  Khastra resumed her work in silence. Her hands were large and yet lithe in impossible ways, nimble after a thousand years of experience. More. And it blew Etolié’s young mind. Despite the animal instinct to run away, she took a small step forward. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, unsure of what else to add.

  Khastra smiled, but there was nothing joyful about it. “So am I.”

  In the silence, they met each other’s gaze, and Etolié saw a great chasm between them.

  “Flowers—” Etolié choked, but by Morathma’s Whore Mother she would not cry. “Flowers told me why you didn’t tell me you were alive. She told me what they’d been doing to you. Don’t be angry; I guilted her. And now I feel like the biggest ass in the realms for being so bitter that you didn’t tell me you were alive because systematic torture seems like a pretty fucking valid reason even if I could have had no way of knowing—My point,” she said, finally taking a breath, “is that I’m sorry.” Etolié shut her eyes, cursing the sudden rise of tears, willing them away. “I hate feelings. But I hurt. I don’t know if I’ve breathed in six months. Even with you alive, I’m struggling to catch it.”

  She dared to look up and saw Khastra staring, saw her hesitating in her seat, her glowing eyes luminous among the candle-lit features of her elegant face. Gods, she was gorgeous in her otherworldly way. Perhaps Etolié had simply been used to it before.

  “I never wanted to hurt you,” Khastra whispered, her lips pulled into a perfect line. “I wanted to protect you, and I see now I made a mistake. What do you need from me? If you need me to leave you alone—”

  “No!” Etolié said, surprised at her own sharpness. “That was never on the table, demon-spawn—” She stopped, recalling suddenly that pet names were suspect. “I-I mean
, you beautiful, blue Bringer of . . .” Etolié trailed off when Khastra chuckled. The melodious noise settled her nerves, because truthfully, she constantly sought the sound. “I think we need time to remember how to be friends. I want to try.”

  Khastra smiled, and Etolié could have cried for relief. “I would be happy to try.” From a bag hung on the chair, Khastra withdrew a small pouch and offered it forward. “I did not know if you would accept this before.”

  Etolié had been drowned in gifts over the years, castoffs the half-demon had deemed ‘practice’ or ‘not flawless enough for Solvira’ but Etolié had deemed her full of shit because everything Khastra crafted was perfect.

  From the pouch, Etolié withdrew an odd metal ring, one with intricate loops and shifting parts and a rainbow of gems to decorate the sides. “Not that it isn’t pretty, but what the hell?”

  Khastra’s laughter brought joy. “It is an elven design. The ring comes apart, like a puzzle, if you are clever. Something to help you focus at your meetings.”

  Etolié slipped it on her finger, already spinning the miniscule gears. “Damn, that’s neat.” She grinned, and Khastra beamed to match.

  They chatted all through the night, illuminated by the lamp. Although Etolié still felt claws around her lungs, the tentative illusion of normalcy was comforting.

  Khastra was safe and constant.

  * * *

  In the evening, when Flowridia finally returned to her bedroom, she took a moment to actually look.

  Dust and disuse should have covered the furniture and bed, but the fresh sheets were neatly folded, the surfaces clean. Demitri’s sniffing became the only sound as he crept through the small bedroom. I remember this being bigger.

  “You were hardly as tall as my thigh when we left.” To emphasize, she flattened her hand against her leg and slowly brought it up above her head, until she could pat Demitri on his ear. “If you think you’d be more comfortable outside, I can set something up.”