Slowly Alphonse licked her lips and then wiped the corners of her mouth with her palm. They were slick with Delyth’s honey.
“Turn around?” she seemed amused and slightly confused. “You don’t want to see my face? I like watching your face.”
Delyth laughed a little breathlessly, but said, “I love your face, Alphonse, but trust me.”
“Alright…” she moved around to kneel beside Delyth’s head. It seemed rude to… straddle her. “Are you certain?” What if she suffocated?
Delyth smiled a little lopsidedly. “I know it seems a bit… awkward,” she said. “But this way, we can both…” Her voice trailed off suggestively, and she reached out to brush her hand down Alphonse’s thigh. “If you don’t want to, we don’t have to.”
Amber eyes seemed to measure the distance between Delyth’s mouth and her mound, the distance between her own… Alphonse chuckled. “You’re very clever and very devious, aren’t you?”
She inhaled deeply as Delyth brushed her lips against Alphonse’s back. It felt strange to have never wanted anything or anyone to now want Delyth so badly she very nearly burned with it. And she did want to try but…
What if Delyth’s touch was so distracting Alphonse couldn’t pleasure the priestess?
Alphonse turned to smile down at the warrior and kissed her lips, beneath her ear, her throat.
“I promise, next time, but for now…” She looked down the length of Delyth’s perfect body. “I want to get this right. Does that upset you?”
Delyth cocked her head quizzically. “It doesn’t upset me at all.” She reached up to cup Alphonse’s face and stroked her cheek with one thumb. “I guess I try not to think of it as something you get right. More like something you just enjoy?” She relaxed again, letting her hand fall from the healer’s face. “I’ve enjoyed how you touch me.”
The words settled into Alphonse like stones. Her heart faltered.
She was making this into something she shouldn’t? She was being too… too studious? Alphonse swallowed and looked away hastily. She ran her fingers through her hair, brushing it away from her face as her mind reeled in what to do.
How could she have ruined this so quickly? This wasn’t school. She wasn’t competing for grades and positions and rank.
Blinking rapidly, she sat back on her haunches. “Oh. You’re right. Of course…” Alphonse shivered, suddenly aware of the cold, for the first time in… well, since Delyth’s lips had touched her own.
“Perhaps I should stop.”
༄
One moment, Delyth leaned back, smiling at Alphonse, and the next, she could see the tension in the girl’s shoulders, the way she turned away.
Delyth sat up abruptly, suddenly horrified with herself. She had said the wrong thing or gone too fast or been too pushy.
She hadn’t thought—
Alphonse had seemed so certain—
“Little bird,” Delyth said, her throat tight and her face drawn, “what’s wrong?”
The priestess wound a wing around Alphonse’s shivering shoulders but didn’t move to touch her.
Alphonse swallowed and shook her head, looking for her nightgown. She reached for the satchel and undid the latches, pulling the top open to rifle through it until she could find a woolen sleeping shift. It was high-necked and long-sleeved. Severe. She tugged it over her head hastily.
“I ruined it and… I feel badly,” she explained, unable to look at Delyth as she swiftly started to braid her thick hair. Her fingers moved steadily despite her dismay. The braid was made quickly, and then Alphonse was running her hands over the rope of her tawny hair again, and again, looking at the tent flap.
“Alphonse,” Delyth said, a little desperately. “I loved every second of that.”
With Alphonse clothed, the priestess was suddenly and uncomfortably aware of her own nakedness. She pressed her arms over her chest and stood. Her clothes were still littered across the tent floor, but she didn’t really want to put them on.
She wanted to sleep with her skin against her little bird’s. Warm despite the cold outside.
“Alphonse, it's safe here. Just you and me. No rules.”
The priestess stepped forward and placed a hand gently on Alphonse’s arm. She didn’t want to be overbearing. She didn’t know how much contact Alphonse wanted.
The healer turned towards Delyth’s touch and slipped her arms about Delyth’s waist hugging her tightly. Her voice was muffled as she spoke. “I— I just wanted you to have good memories of me.” She swallowed and raised a hand to stroke the priestess’s hair. “You’re so very lovely. It’s ravishing, really…” She finger-combed those thick locks. “Shall I braid your hair for you?”
For a long moment, Delyth looked down at Alphonse. She wanted to remind the healer of their conversation earlier, of how they were going to move to Dailion when this was all over. Alphonse could finish her studies with Etienne, and Delyth would find some work—maybe as a guard or a messenger or well, anything really. She wanted to promise everything would be alright. That there wasn’t any need to worry about memories.
But it was just a dream.
Seeing Enyo to the temple might not free Alphonse. It could kill her. It could trap her mind in whatever dark abyss she fled to when the Goddess was in control or… or—
The future was a saltwater flood rising around Delyth’s chest while she dreamed of dry land. She was already choking on it, her throat tightening as Alphonse reached up to play with her hair.
She couldn’t promise a happy ending. But she could enjoy what they had now.
Delyth nodded; she didn’t trust herself to speak. She would let Alphonse braid her hair.
The priestess turned away and reached for one of their blankets, pulling it up below her wings and then around her bare body. She knelt to make it easier for Alphonse. “I’m sorry if it's a bit tangled… ”
When they slept, it was as they usually did, curled close beneath a great, black wing.
Chapter XX
Seventh Moon, Full: Thloegr
For some reason, Alphonse felt as if she were sneaking out of her own tent. She woke early, not having any way to know what time it was, what with the blizzard affecting the light that was able to filter into the cave, but she knew it was time to rise despite her late night.
She couldn’t help but remember what she had done… What she had done with Delyth.
Alphonse had dressed hastily and backed out of the tent, grateful that Delyth was either still asleep, or allowing her to escape without confrontation.
Guilt wracked through Alphonse, and she hurried to attend to her personal chores before anyone else came out of their tents. Etienne had been right. She was using Delyth. Even if her feelings for the warrior were genuine… Even if she cared for Delyth more than she had ever, ever…
But she was going to try her best to banish Enyo, and when she failed, Enyo would erase every piece of Alphonse. Then Delyth would be left with no Goddess or an angry, vengeful Enyo who would surely punish Delyth for loving…
Alphonse straightened up from restarting the fire.
Love?
Was that what this was?
Surely not! Delyth didn’t love Alphonse. They were close. They were friends. They were… paramours but—
Alphonse shoved the thought away with both hands. Because if Delyth—if Alphonse loved…
No. No. It was too terrible.
She hastily made breakfast despite no one to share it with and took her bowl of porridge to the edge of the cave, watching the snow fly by. Listening to the howling winds. She had created this storm.
It looked just like the one inside her felt.
She was the monster, not Enyo. Enyo was just a Goddess. Built and designed to be precisely what she was. But Alphonse… She was willingly tricking and lying to her friends, Etienne included.
They’ll never forgive you. Not really. And they can’t accept what you are now… Will be…
Alphonse clutched her
chest, wishing for once in her life that the sick voice was Enyo’s. But it wasn’t. It was her own. The voice that once told her the right path…
Now it was as lost and broken as she was. No guide left within her, Alphonse wondered when Enyo had taken that from her.
She couldn’t remember when she last knew what was right and what was wrong.
Pain sheared through Alphonse’s mind, and she winced, dropping her bowl with a clatter on the cave floor.
⥣ ⥣ ⥣
* * *
The grey dim of his tent was lighter when Etienne awoke, though the seams did not glow with the press of sunlight. It was early, but the smell of one of the others cooking was thick in the limited space of the cave. The air around him was still damnably frigid.
Etienne lay still in the semi-darkness for a long time. Shame lay with him, ugly and panting.
He’d been too harsh with Alphonse. He still believed that he was right, that she shouldn’t have let herself get so close to Delyth; it could jeopardize everything. Still, it was natural for her to want comfort with all she faced…
He would have to apologize.
Etienne pushed himself up, dressed, and slipped out of his tent to find that Alphonse was the only other awake. She stood at the mouth of the cave, her hands empty despite the smell of porridge still coiling between their tents.
“Alphonse,” he called out in greeting as he approached.
She didn’t react at all. No glance over her shoulder, no flinch of pain at his voice, no response. Instead, she stretched one palm towards the shield keeping the storm out and the cave safe.
The power fluctuated at her touch, started to shiver and flex. A faint hum of energy reverberated through the stone walls and mixed with the other sounds of their little refuge. She pushed harder against the shield, and it groaned, then threw her hand back, rejecting the contact.
Slowly she looked down at her hand, flexing her fingers experimentally before tucking them against her side.
“You’re not entirely useless, mage,” she murmured at last, her voice hollow and unfeeling. Enyo, typically so passionate in her rage or lust, seemed empty as her gaze drifted to Etienne.
He tensed, his heart sinking. There was no telling when he would get to apologize now. And no telling what Enyo would do. He kept back unconsciously, his mouth suddenly dry. He didn’t like the way she looked at him. Cold and dispassionate.
He didn’t immediately answer her. He wasn’t going to preen at her praise like some desperate pet. Instead, he followed her gaze to the blizzard raging outside. “The shield has held well. It’s an unconventional use for it.”
Etienne considered the way Enyo had tested his work… Would it hold her? As well as his containing spell had? It just might, though there would be no testing it. It at least could be managed fairly easily with the supplies he could gather on the way.
“It’s nice to think humans can still bend the rules. When I last saw humans, they were starting to get… bothersome about such things.” Perhaps that had been why they had banded together and banished her and her fellow Gods? They wanted rules and order and laws, and the old Gods were lawless creatures of impulse and chaos?
Etienne didn’t blame them.
Enyo turned towards him fully, studying his face, his hands. Measuring him with that same lifeless gaze.
“Where do your bloodlines hail from, mage?”
Etienne snorted. “The slums of Dailion for all I know,” he said, his tone bitter. “What does it matter?”
“I’ve often contemplated human magic. Slow and tedious. Still, some practitioners are so much more powerful than others, like the old days. It’s in the blood. Magic. That’s why it’s so potent, so powerful. Sacred. Va'al’s children… They brought magic to the humans more than we ever did.”
She shrugged and glanced towards Tristan’s tent, distracted by something there.
Finally, Enyo blinked, and her attention returned to Etienne.
“Perhaps you are one of his descendants. An amusing thought that he would laugh over, certainly. Do you know who I speak of, mage?”
“I don’t know of Va'al,” he said, his curiosity piqued despite himself. “Who was he?”
“My friend,” Enyo answered simply. Was that… sadness, tainting her voice? Her golden eyes drifted to the entrance to the cave once more.
He supposed it would have been lonely, to be the only one left of her kind.
“Go away, mage. You make this mortal’s heart crack and weep. You and the Ba’oto as well. I should thank you because as her heart flutters and fails, I find it easier to take hold, but it is …” She rubbed at her chest as if that could ease the ache in Alphonse’s heart. “Annoying.”
Clearly done with the discussion, Enyo returned to watching the snowstorm, as if the swirling mess of snow and ice and mountain could soothe her loneliness.
Perhaps it could.
Etienne didn’t think there was much he could do to alleviate Alphonse’s pain… He rubbed his chest where Enyo’s palm had left a perfectly visible brand. He only ever seemed to make it worse.
⚄
Tristan left his tent to find Etienne striding away from the entrance to the cave. The boy’s shoulders were tense, his face contorted with anguish. Behind him, Alphonse stood facing the storm, shards of pottery scattered around her booted feet. Tristan raised an eyebrow.
Enyo was back.
Etienne slumped past without meeting Tristan’s eyes, and for once, the rogue ignored him.
Toying with Enyo about Pwll had been a mistake, for all it burned to admit it. Tristan had a goal here. He had to get Enyo to the temple, and any further delays would do him no favors.
He sighed. He’d have to butter her up.
Tristan straightened and swaggered over to the cave entrance. He stood there some feet away from Enyo for a few long minutes before speaking. “The wind is dancing so that even heavy snow cannot help but join her.”
Enyo wasn’t particularly melancholy prone. Not like Tha’et or Maoz. She was fairly stable in her moods, though they could be quite a challenge to be around. However, a few times over her long life, she had come down with fits of despondency that had lasted years.
At one point, she had refused to let any flower bloom and sat in a cold stream, bemoaning the state of her lakes. The crops had been so terrible her followers had flocked to her temples with offerings.
History would remember that time as the Great Famine.
Her golden eyes flickered to Tristan.
“There is no one left to dance with. The wind is dancing by herself,” Enyo murmured, her voice flat.
Tristan raised an eyebrow. That was… dramatic. Had she really been that embarrassed about Pwll?
A small noise behind him caused Tristan to look around for a moment. Delyth had stepped out of her tent, hair braided back unusually neat in sweeping strands that began at her temples. The rogue smiled.
He did so love a captive audience.
“There are still those that remember the old dances,” Tristan said, turning back to Enyo. He held out a hand in casual invitation, his grin just as crooked as always.
❂
He couldn’t be more than… thirty years old. It was difficult to tell with humans, but Enyo couldn’t see how he’d know anything old. Anything glorious and dangerous and pure. Anything worthwhile.
Of course, in the darkness, she had always wanted to come back. But Enyo hadn’t thought about what she’d come back to.
This world. Her precious world. So tame. So domesticated. Groomed.
Her hands balled into fists, and the storm outside redoubled it’s efforts, wailing.
What had they done to her Illygad, these lazy, selfish humans?
Something deep within the mountain shuddered.
“Suit yourself,” he said, closing his outstretched palm. “I’ll dance with the wind instead.”
Tristan turned his eyes back to the storm for a moment, contemplating her vicious fervor. When h
e moved again, it was without warning. He was simply still one moment and sliding into the opening motions of an ancient dance praising the mountains the next.
The movements cut the growl building in her throat off midway, as she watched the footwork and frenzied dancing. She could almost hear the drums and the fiddles and the panting voices, the slap of bodies against one another…
The wind raged on, but whatever was moaning in the mountain faded.
As his feet beat out the drum’s parts, Enyo turned fully, eyes slanted with displeasure despite her fingers tapping at her sides. She remembered these dances. They were partner dances…
⚄
Something old and wild stirred beneath Tristan’s skin. He was as dangerous as the blizzard howling just outside, as soft as a newborn babe. Everything that lay before him was a playground to stomp across.
Real joy replaced his customary arrogance, though just for a moment.
As the slap of his footwork brought him back around to Enyo, Tristan smirked at her. “Well, are you going to let me do this alone? It’s not a dance meant for one.”
The Goddess frowned, but…
She slipped her arm about his waist, spinning with him one direction, pausing, entwining arms about each other’s waist and back, spinning the opposite direction.
They spun and twirled and stomped around the fire until meeting in the center again. Enyo braced one hand against Tristan’s chest while the other cupped the back of his neck. She arched and tilted her chin back back back until Tristan’s arm about her hips was the only thing keeping her from falling. He hauled her up again, and she returned the favor as he arched back, a struggle to keep him upright in this useless tiny body, but…
She spun in his grip and back around the fire they flew.
This time when they met in the middle, Enyo shoved Tristan, then he shoved her, a mock battle of sorts. Push and pull, drag and yank. She ‘slapped’ him, and he ‘stabbed’ her with an invisible spear.
Back around the fire to meet again.
The dance was the dichotomy of anger and love, lust and vengeance. Each meeting escalated the scene they played out until Enyo knelt at Tristan’s feet, perhaps bleeding of a terrible wound.
Vassal Page 27