by S D Simper
And perhaps it was, for fate decreed she could not keep this sacred thing.
Khastra kissed like the world might end, the motions marred by the great finality of it all. Etolié tucked locks of her hair behind her pointed ear, memorizing every tactile sensation beneath her fingers.
They did not say goodbye, merely shared a final glance in the faint moonlight, Khastra’s glowing eyes more beautiful than the stars above.
Khastra dressed, and Etolié caught glimpses of her in the trickling light, a flash of her skin, of her horns, her hair. Etolié thought to touch her one last time, to steal her hand, but regret stilled her actions, frozen by the crippling realization that their time had ended before it could begin.
Cloven footsteps disappeared behind the bookshelves. The door shut.
Etolié curled into her blankets, naked and raw, her body still pulsing from Khastra’s pleasured touch.
Making love, she had called it.
Etolié wept, and not for reasons her mind could quite comprehend—only that she knew how it felt to be truly lonely now.
And what it meant to be cherished.
* * *
Sunrise peeked through the window when Flowridia awoke. When she pulled herself from Demitri’s embrace, the giant wolf let her go. She looked to his face and realized his eyes were already open. “How long have you been awake?”
I never slept.
Flowridia frowned. “I’m sorry you couldn’t sleep, dearest Demitri.”
I refuse to let my guard down around that woman. She watched you while you slept. Watched you like meat.
“I think you might be exaggerating.”
Ayla watched you like meat, too. But at least she was honest about her intentions.
“We’ll discuss this later.” Flowridia left him to his paranoia, instead going to the unused bedroom and brushing her tangled hair. Once she’d changed clothes, she stepped into the workroom, stopping when she saw Odessa staring down into the cauldron.
Flowridia joined her, peering down at Ayla’s body, sadness filling her soul. Her next words spilled out in a rush. “Swear to me that Ayla will be kept safe here.”
“Were an intruder to enter,” Odessa said gently, “the best I could do is cast them out.” She placed an ethereal arm on Flowridia’s back, that odd tingling sensation once again radiating where incorporeal met flesh. “But that is enough, I think. And no one will come here. No one has tried since my passing.”
Flowridia nodded slowly.
“Keep a piece of your lover with you,” Odessa continued. “There are spells to find the rest of her body should the worst happen—spells I can teach you.”
“That’s very wise.”
“I did not rise to power with a feeble mind,” Odessa said with a smirk.
From within, she gently lifted the severed, shriveled ear—still pierced and chained—and set it around her neck. A smile pulled at her lips, the familiar weight a comfort, even as cold enveloped her body, shards of ice piercing her skin.
“So what is your plan to get your Lara here?”
Flowridia’s skin crawled when Odessa’s face appeared only inches from hers. “Lara tasked my kingdom with finding a series of magical artifacts. If I tell her that I’ve located one here in the swamp, I could ask for her help to retrieve it.”
“And the empress will accompany you personally? How do you know she won’t try and send an envoy?”
Flowridia hoped the shame she felt didn’t blossom onto her face, though her cheeks burned. “I have a plan.” She was remiss to explain it, given it involved destroying Odessa’s wards. “That, and Lara and I . . . She has some affection towards me. She’ll believe anything I say.”
The smile on Odessa’s face held vicious intent. “Wonderful,” she said, intrigue lacing the word. “And you’ll use that, of course.”
“I don’t want to break her heart.” Flowridia said softly.
“So you’ll stab her heart, but you wouldn’t dare to break it? Your standards are an odd thing.” Before Flowridia could retort, Odessa pulled back, standing straight as she stared. “Why break her heart at all? Warm her heart. Cherish it. Kiss her as you slit her pretty throat.” Odessa chuckled darkly. “You’ll hardly need precautions. She’ll never even see it coming.”
Flowridia swallowed her revulsion. Murishani had said the same thing.
“And if you cannot do it,” Odessa added, “pity. Become whatever it takes to succeed.”
She looked away, staring again into the cauldron as she nodded.
Odessa flew again into her line of sight. “So, when you say ‘your kingdom . . ?’”
“Staelash.”
“And what position do you hold in Staelash, Flower Child? Clearly something of importance.”
“I’m a diplomat.” Flowridia paused, and with a sigh, clarified, “Lady Flowridia, Grand Diplomat of Staelash.”
“In one year you crawled from peasant to Grand Diplomat and endeared yourself to Imperator Casvir of Nox’Kartha and stole the heart of a thousand-year-old vampire? Perhaps I’ll also demand a story from you as additional payment for my services.”
“When you say it like that, it sounds impressive.”
“I have never birthed an unimpressive daughter.”
The statement brought no pride, merely an unnerving reminder—that there had been others, and those others had been murdered by Odessa’s hands.
With her supplies gathered, Flowridia placed Ana into her bag and settled it at her hip. She left the precious spear, deeming it safer here than on the road, and the last of her supplies—the warming crystal—she held in her hand as she approached the door. “Mother, I’m leaving.”
Odessa appeared. “Become whatever it takes to succeed, Flower Child,” she echoed. “I’ll be waiting.”
Further pleasantries seemed unnecessary. Flowridia led Demitri out the door.
Outside, the barest hints of light peeked above the horizon, yet the swamp still held a muggy, dark aura. “Leave the wagon. We won’t need it anymore. Now, shut your eyes. I’ll tell you when to open them again.” She led Demitri past the ghosts, her heart hurting at their ghastly stares.
They crossed the clearing before the cottage, and only then did she bid him to open his eyes. “We have a long journey ahead of us.”
But you still want to come back?
“It’s the best way.”
Demitri gave no argument, for which she was grateful. She pulled the orb from her bag and held it close, letting the soft blue light be of some comfort in the dank atmosphere.
Ice steadied their path. Demitri spoke. Will we be napping soon, at least?
“You’re the one,” Flowridia said with some exasperation, “who chose to not sleep.”
I’m not arguing. I’m just tired and hungry.
She saw exhaustion in his golden gaze, and her heart softened. He meant well; Demitri always did. “I know.” She stared at the path to the cottage, though it had vanished behind ancient wards. “And I don’t think I thank you enough for accompanying me on my insane endeavors.”
What would I be doing besides following you?
“Eating like a king and watching over Etolié’s library,” Flowridia said, giggling at the thought. “But I’d be lost without you.”
They continued forward.
* * *
Etolié awoke as empty as she had ever felt.
She pulled herself from her nest of blankets and scarves, the morning light filtering from the skylight above. Birds sang, grating on her senses. She summoned her flask and drank and drank . . .
A ghostly touch lingered, the dream she’d had too strange and beautiful to be real. Yet the signs persisted, evidence she couldn’t contemplate but had to—the slight ache between her legs, the faint scent of sex staining her bed, even her own nakedness.
The last was simple to fix. As she stood up, she summoned the illusion of clothing and nearly stumbled into Zoldar.
“Listen, whatever you saw last night . . .�
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But her words trailed off when Zoldar clicked in reprimand; he offered a handkerchief instead. She stared, confused, until he came closer and gently dabbed the dampness beneath her eyes. He placed it into her hand, and Etolié simply stared, even when he skittered away.
She went to the washroom, scrubbing the lingering traces of Khastra’s scent from her skin, slowly feeling her soul settle back into her body. She washed her hair; she brushed it and willed the star-lit locks to dry quickly. When she caught sight of herself in the full-length mirror, she saw a thin and sickly woman, gaunt and pale, the outline of her ribs and hipbones apparent. Not so thin as to drop dead—she could thank booze for that—but far from pretty.
Khastra though . . . Khastra thought she was.
And . . . perhaps she was all right with that.
The hollow in her stomach could be filled. Etolié ended up in the kitchen, a very plain and boring slab of toast in front of her, as well as a full glass of wine. For the first time in months, the compulsion to eat actually seemed worth listening to.
Thalmus sat in the corner, ignoring her as he read whatever documents Etolié had neglected and instead mulled over himself.
Etolié took tiny bites, drinking in between, her stomach growing hungrier each time she swallowed. In the burn marks of her toast, she was fairly confident she saw Sol Kareena’s countenance, and she wondered if this were a sign to eat or to definitely not eat her aunt’s face.
She didn’t notice when Sora entered, an unholy amount of bacon stacked on her steaming plate—not until the half-elf sat across from her, her dark-ringed eyes sunken and confused. “You all right?”
Etolié turned the plate around. “Does this look holy to you?”
“If I were starving, it might.”
Etolié lifted the toast and took a bite out of Sol Kareena’s blessed ear.
“Are you all right?”
Etolié shrugged, unable to summon the energy to face her, but now asked herself the same question—what the fuck even were her emotions?
Rather than answer, Etolié took another drink.
“Starshine!”
Etolié spat out her gulp of wine, splattering Sora but sparing the bacon—Sora whipped it aside just in time.
Her wine rippled, then the deep red liquid began swirling unbidden, a small whirlpool that rose and formed a humanoid figure standing no more than six inches high.
Eionei’s powers were odd, and manifesting in her wineglass was one of the oddest.
“Starshine,” her tiny grandfather said. His eyes, though maroon and monochrome, were bright. “First of all, breathe. You’re turning blue.”
Etolié obeyed.
“Sol Kareena’s heartbroken over the tragedy yesterday, but she wanted me to send her thanks to you for—” Tiny grandpa suddenly stopped, liquid-y eyes widening. “Are you eating?”
Etolié held up her half-eaten toast, ignoring the slack-jawed Sora before her and the forcibly stoic Thalmus at the other end of the table.
“Your empress has been worried. She’s told your mother all about it in her prayers.”
“Lara fucking what—”
“Keep it up.” He stopped again, this time his gaze narrowing. “What is that?”
“What’s what?”
“On your neck. What in Onias’ Hell is that?”
Etolié touched her neck, feeling nothing, but across from her, Sora’s shock managed to grow. She whipped her mirror out of the air, the one generally used to contact Flowers, oft forgotten to be a perfectly functional mirror.
There, on the center left side of her otherwise rather smooth and pale neck, was a mark the same shade as Eionei’s earthly manifestation.
“Starshine—”
Etolié panicked and chugged the wine. Bitter liquid burned her throat as alcohol and nothing more.
Thalmus continued pretending he wasn’t listening. Sora audibly gulped. “Did you swallow Eionei?”
Etolié nodded.
“Why do you have a hickey?”
“I don’t have a hickey.” Etolié had, of course, illusioned it away.
“You’d lie to a priestess?”
“Don’t you have bigger problems right now?”
Contrite, Sora returned to her bacon. “We’ve been officially invited to the funeral of Archbishop Xoran,” she said between bites. “It’s in a week. I’m going to go. It would probably be a gesture of goodwill for you to accompany me.”
“I agree.” Etolié poked her toast, resting her chin on her fist. The horrors of yesterday felt . . . muted. All of Etolié felt muted, her mind instead replaying the scene of last night, the flashes of Khastra in the dark.
“Are you sure you’re all right? Yesterday was awful. The courtyard still smells like blood. I was going to lead a worship at the temple today to help comfort the masses, if you wanted to . . .” Sora stopped when Etolié shook her head.
“If I wanted to talk to Auntie Kareena, I would.”
Were it Meira—Meira, who had recently been declared a saint by the masses—harassing her about church attendance, Etolié might’ve snapped. As it was, Sora accepted both her refusal and the pet name, instead returning to her bacon. She had her priorities straight, Etolié decided.
Etolié took another nibble of toast.
Khastra was gone.
Etolié swallowed, the crusty bread scratching her throat.
She and Khastra . . . what had happened?
Thalmus periodically glanced up from his paperwork, perhaps confused by Etolié’s silence. Sora munched on her bacon, looking anywhere but at her.
What did it mean? They’d kissed, but . . . They’d touched.
Khastra had touched her as deep as her soul, and Etolié had felt nothing like it before.
Etolié stiffened as she wrapped her arm around herself. It terrified her to be seen as anything, and Khastra had whispered words that were a nightmare from anyone else, but not from her because she was different; she was Khastra, and Etolié didn’t know what that meant.
Khastra had touched her. The release had been overwhelming, but not as overwhelming as Khastra calling her beautiful.
“Etolié?”
Etolié glanced up, realizing tears had splattered onto her toast. It took her a moment longer to realize they were her own.
It wasn’t Sora who had spoken, but Thalmus. The half-elf watched, concern etched into her countenance, but Thalmus had said her name.
“Yesterday was difficult on us all,” he said, but he didn’t know fucking half of it. “Perhaps you should take a day to recover.”
It was the kindest thing he’d ever said to her. Etolié quickly nodded and left her wet toast behind.
What did it mean?
Her feet took her down a different path—to the outside, where fresh snowfall blanketed the world. Etolié was unhindered by cold, though she did illusion a lovely winter coat to dissuade passersby from worrying.
Etolié went to Flowers’ garden. The world was quiet there—a perfect place to cry.
She did. But it felt like a release instead of a horrible choking thing. It hurt, but she breathed, like coughing up stardust from her lungs. Pain meant she lived.
Wasn’t this the way of the world? People met and fucked and fell in love?
Etolié had never felt the magnetic draw that most others did, the desire to touch and to be touched. But that didn’t account for her fear of it. It didn’t explain why she missed Khastra so dearly, longed for that closeness once more, that bonding.
Etolié laid upon the frost-bitten grass, immune to the biting cold. It was the way of the world, to crave love. Perhaps she simply hadn’t known it for what it was until it was gone.
With her back to the snow, she stared up at the sky, framed by tree branches.
“I would have been content to perish with that as my final duty.”
Tears leaked from her eyes, cold upon her face but never freezing. Had this been the truth all along? A truth she’d simply denied? All tho
se mornings waking in Khastra’s arms . . . Was it truly so odd to crave the touch of someone you merely saw as a friend?
Perhaps it was, given her aversion to touch as a rule. The world itched; people itched. But Khastra’s strong arms and callused hands had always been a comfort.
She shut her eyes, another sob escaping her throat. What use was it now, when Khastra was gone?
“We can only be as friendly as our kingdoms, lest we fall into scandal.”
If Solvira knew she’d fucked the person responsible for the archbishop’s death, her crown would risk forfeit.
But Khastra’s lips had felt like pure joy, and Etolié wept to remember it, surprised to realize she’d do it all again, that when Khastra had moved inside her, they’d finally felt close enough.
And she wondered most of all, as she cried in a clearing filled with frost, if Khastra wondered all these things as well, or if it had meant nothing at all.
The next morning, Etolié sat inside a carriage, face pressed against the glass window, watching the world roll by. Across from her, Sora was knitting, that little bird of hers perched on her shoulder. This was a habit Etolié hadn’t known about but, well, it wasn’t like she was exactly perceptive of the world around her. Or inside her.
Making love, Khastra had called it. Etolié spun the ring on her finger. “Sora?”
Etolié felt eyes. “Etolié?”
“So . . . I have a friend.”
After a full five seconds of Etolié saying nothing to explain that admittedly odd phrase, Sora said, “You have a few of those.”
“You don’t know this one. But she has, um, another friend, and they’ve been friends for a really long time—like twenty years, long time. And they were best friends. Best buds, bosom buddies, whatever the fuck you want to call it—but speaking of bosoms . . .” Etolié grossly regretted that segue. “Let’s say they had sex.”
“Your friend and her friend?”
“Yes. What would, um . . .” Etolié finally looked away from the window, content to stare instead at the funny little doily Sora held between those weird needle things. “What would that mean?”