by M. D. Grimm
I took a deep breath and backed away from the door. There was something else I needed to remember, one thing I had to focus on that might stop me from turning into an addict.
Aishe was my reason. Whatever the situation, he was my compass. I’d used Atcoatlu to return to my own time, to reunite with him. I used Drefeln to save him from Dreamworld. I didn’t use Ellegrech because he was there to talk some sense into me. He pushed me or stopped me, whatever the situation demanded. I trusted him to know what was right, to have the moral compass I would never have. He was my reason and it felt like he was slipping away from me. Despite the conversations, his presence, I still felt like I was losing him. We still felt broken.
“So do something about it, you idiot,” I said aloud. I clenched my hands into fists before spinning around, turning my back to the gemstones and their tempting songs.
As I stomped down the long corridors, my mind wouldn’t find rest. Half of me still wanted the stones, but the stronger half knew I had to resist. If not for myself, then for Aishe. He deserved happiness, he deserved a home. So much had been taken from him brutally, callously. I owed it to him to resist until my last breath, no matter my dark, personal desires.
I retreated to the room I used for painting, and locked the door behind me. Tall, wide windows let in the maximum amount of light, and I rolled up my sleeves before pulling off the soft sheet covering the painting I’d been working on for a couple of months.
The day was heading toward evening by the time I stepped back from the painting and knew it was finished. Finally, after all this time, I had painted Aishe, with a few additions. Satisfied and triumphant, I dried the paint with a word and flick of my hand. Then I covered the canvas with the soft cloth again and searched for him.
My first stop was the library. He sat curled on the window seat, eyes glued to a rolled piece of parchment. I didn’t recognize it, but then my library was full of scrolls, journals, and tomes I’d collected over the years. I had yet to find time, or patience, to read them all.
“Aishe.”
He looked up and smiled. At least he smiled when he saw me, now.
“I want to show you something. Got a moment?”
“Of course.” He gently set down the scroll and followed me.
My heart drummed in my chest as I led him to the room with the painting. Anxious and excited at the same time, my hands twisted in front of me.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
“Not at all. Just... nervous.”
He frowned. “About what?”
I shrugged. I led him inside the room and stepped up to the covered canvas. He looked at it, puzzled.
“Ever since we met, I’ve wanted to paint you,” I said. “I’ve tried different times, and yet never managed to capture you right. Your essence, your spirit, your strength and compassion. All the things that make you, you.”
He blushed and looked pleased.
“I think I might have finally done it. Let me know if you don’t like it. I can change anything or destroy it. It’s up to you.”
“For the Mother’s sake,” he said, laughing. “Let me see!”
I held my breath and yanked off the cloth. He sucked in a breath, and his hands flung to his mouth. His eyes popped wide, and for a moment I thought I’d done something wrong. Then his eyes filled, and he lowered his hands to his chest.
“Oh, Morgorth.”
Victory! I grinned and stepped up beside him, viewing the painting as he did.
I managed to capture a moment I witnessed when I traveled back in time to when he was a lad, and his tribe still been alive. Aishe, along with his parents and four siblings, sat at a table eating supper. It was twilight and there was laughter and a feeling of merriment among those pictured. Breyln, Aishe’s father, smiled indulgently at his children. He’d been chief of the tribe and a proud warrior, and also a proud father. He’d accepted me and told me I was part of the family. Nunya, Aishe’s mother, was beautiful inside and out. I managed to capture the feeling she was scolding her children even as she laughed. Aishe’s three older brothers were providing comic relief and their younger sister, the baby of the family, Amyla, sat next to Aishe, lively and spirited. She had to be strong to survive four older brothers, yet she’d also been graceful like her mother.
The colors were vivid, the expressions of the subjects painstakingly done. I didn’t use magick, not once. With careful brushstrokes, I was determined to give Aishe a good memory. I wanted him to remember his tribe as they once were, alive and happy. He needed to remember them that way, the true way, if he was going to defeat what the demon had done.
“I remember,” he whispered, his voice choked. “I remember them that night. I....” He swung toward me, and his arms latched around me so tightly I could barely breathe. I didn’t complain. I held him back, joy thrumming through me. “You captured them. That was the night he used on me. The demon, I mean. He twisted it, destroyed it. He used my memories of the massacre and mixed them with this night. But you... you gave them back to me.”
I was thrilled he finally opened up about it. He’d yet to tell me exactly what the demon did, and now I knew part of it. “I only helped you remember. Don’t let the demon win, baby. Don’t let him take them and me away from you. You know the truth. You know what happened then.”
He kissed me. I sank into it, thrilled beyond belief. His taste was exhilarating, his soft lips exquisite. How I missed him!
He pulled back, and I grunted in annoyance. I told myself I wouldn’t push. Though it killed me, I wouldn’t push. I opened my eyes and sucked in a sharp breath. There was lust in his eyes—desire for me, for us. My knees threatened to buckle. I’d wondered if I would ever see that look again.
“It’s perfect, my love,” he said. “Or nearly perfect.”
I frowned. “What do you mean nearly perfect? What’s wrong with it?” I stared at the painting, scrutinizing every line.
“You’re not in there.”
I blinked. “I’m not supposed to be.”
“Yes, you are.”
“There’s no room. It would ruin—”
“No, it wouldn’t.”
“This is a painting of your family. I don’t belong there.”
He tilted his head, a crooked smile on his face. “You’re an idiot sometimes.”
“Hey,” I said. As I looked into his eyes, I realized he was right. His tribe was gone. I was his family. He’d put all his hopes and dreams on me despite the times I’d disappointed him.
He cupped my face and kissed me again, softer this time. “You could never ruin anything. You are my family. I’d like to see you with us.”
My heart contracted, in a good way. I sighed. “I could modify it... somehow. Find room. Later.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He pressed his cheek against mine, and we both stared at the painting. “I can almost hear them. I remember so much of that day. We were so happy.” He paused and pulled away. “May I have a moment?”
“Of course!” I turned away but even as I stepped toward the door, he grabbed my hand. I looked back. His eyes held a wicked gleam that sent a bolt of lust straight to my groin.
“Don’t go too far,” he said. “I don’t want to waste energy hunting you. I have better uses for it.”
My stomach warmed. I lifted his hand and kissed the back of it. “Anything for you, pet.”
He narrowed his eyes and his smile widened. “I’m going to spank you for that.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
I chuckled.
“Oh, you have something of mine,” he said.
I raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He looked pointedly at my chest. My mouth dried. I never took the amethyst pendant off, and it usually lay hidden under my collar. I didn’t want it to be another constant reminder of the gap between us. With trembling hands, I slipped the amethyst over my head and held it out. He stood where he was, making no mov
e to take it. It took me a moment to understand. I stepped up and slipped it over his head myself, just as I did the first time I brought him home. He smiled and fingered it.
“I’m sorry,” I said. I wasn’t exactly sure what I was apologizing for, but I was compelled to say it.
“I know,” he said. “I am, too.” Then he turned to the painting.
I left, shutting the door behind me. Then I simply leaned against the wall and let my weak legs lower me to the floor. We would be all right. I had to hope and trust in that, in us. There would still be rough patches, I was sure. There would still be nightmares for both of us. It mattered, didn’t it, that we both wanted this to work? We weren’t ready to let go. We weren’t ready to give up.
I sat there and waited. I refused to dwell on the vision of Aishe’s death. The future was not set in stone. Perhaps it was a warning, it was sent by the Mother, after all, to stay on the narrow path of good, to avoid the wide path of villainy. I needed to toe the middle line and whenever possible, lean toward good.
We would make love tonight. We both needed that connection again. I wasn’t foolish enough to think everything was fixed and perfect between us. There was still a chasm, and we were slowly building a bridge. The question was, would the bridge be made of stone and mortar, unbreakable and unyielding? Or would it be made of rope and wood, prone to rot and decay?
The door opened a long while later and Aishe stepped out. We looked at each other. He smiled and held out his hand. I smiled back and took it.
Epilogue
Master Ulezander stood in the large parlor at his home in Muelsel. He contemplated the fire in his hearth, not really seeing the flames or feeling the warmth. It had been a very long time since he felt this conflicted. He always knew his purpose, his course in life. He’d accepted it long ago, even relished it. He enjoyed his life, the people he met, the lovers he’d had. The time had come, however, for something he dearly wished he could avoid.
In his hand was an old, slightly battered journal. It was enchanted to protect it from age and attempts to destroy it. It would only open for a select few, the original owner having been quite adept at complicated spell work. That made sense, really. The first owner had been Melondia, one of the first mages ever born. The youngest of the seven, in fact. His ancestor.
Master Ulezander looked at the journal and his gut tightened. He’d read it repeatedly over the years. He could even recite several sections from its pages, but this journal wasn’t meant for his eyes. He was only a temporary keeper.
The time had come to give it to the mage it was meant for. He swallowed hard, feeling true fear and anxiety, emotions he only had when concerning one of his greatest and most troubled students.
He closed his eyes and thought of Morgorth. He loved him greatly, as a father would a son. He didn’t mean to. He’d tried to keep his distance emotionally, but that was never a possibility. Morgorth’s wounded spirit called to him, needing him. It was with singular clarity he could remember Morgorth as a lad of seven, a tiny, starved little thing with enormous, haunted brown eyes filled with pain and rage no child should know. It had taken all his strength not to scoop him up right then and carry him somewhere warm, to feed him rich food, to shelter and protect. Morgorth brought an overwhelming protective streak to the surface, though he’d never thought of himself as paternal. He’d known he couldn’t baby Morgorth, not after setting eyes on him that first time. Morgorth hadn’t known kindness or security. Master Ulezander needed to stay cold and aloof, then ease past his defenses. He had to truly earn that trust, and he hoped love. His heart had bled to see such pain, such abuse on one who should be cherished and guided gently to his true destiny.
Master Ulezander opened his eyes. He was the only one to know Morgorth’s true purpose. Well, him and the Mother. Now it was time to reveal that secret to Morgorth. Knowing his student, he knew that wouldn’t go over well. Morgorth was damn stubborn and convinced of his role in the world, resigned to being the condemned, the one blamed, the one hated.
Master Ulezander’s hands tightened on the journal as his jaw clenched. Morgorth would never know how hard Master Ulezander struggled not to throttle those who spoke ill of him. He would never know the wave of protection that always crashed over Master Ulezander when he learned of the danger directed at Morgorth or the enormity of his pride when he learned of Morgorth’s triumph over his enemies. Morgorth killed a demon. The pride in his son knew no bounds, for that was how he thought of him, had always thought of him, ever since he’d taken Morgorth under his wing.
Now this. Master Ulezander set the journal on top of the mantel piece before turning and walking slowly toward the stairs that would lead to his bedchamber. There was one more test Morgorth needed to go through, one more trial, and Master Ulezander was loathe to be part of it. He didn’t know when the trial’s time would come, or what exactly it would entail, but he knew it to be soon. The storm fast approached. Without Morgorth it would blow everything away.
Master Ulezander knew, even if all went the way it should, he might lose his son’s trust and love, alienating himself from one he only wished to guide and protect. Morgorth didn’t handle secrets well, and Master Ulezander knew his knowledge of Morgorth’s family would pale in comparison to his knowledge of Morgorth’s true destiny.
His only comfort, cold though it might be, was all would be as it should and that Morgorth had Aishe by his side. Morgorth’s letter about Suvar caused a flash of fury to spark inside him. On the heels of that was intense pride. Morgorth was stronger with Aishe by his side, and no matter what happened, no matter what was thrown his way, he would survive. And there was no doubt in Master Ulezander’s mind that Morgorth would succeed.
After getting ready for bed, he lay down and doubted he would sleep. He stared at the vaulted ceiling and blew out a long breath.
“I know what I must do, Mother,” he whispered into the night. “But I do not wish to lose him. You always ask too much of your children. You ask too much of him. He is strong and he is learning how to bend. But the truth just might break him. It will certainly break us.”
He didn’t expect an answer and so the disappointment that flashed through him was foolish and childish. He turned on his side and closed his eyes, focusing on nothing, quieting his mind.
“I do this for you, son,” he said softly, his voice barely making a sound. “I do this for all of us. The battle wages closer, and we’ll need you before the end. I’m sorry.”
###
About M.D. Grimm
M.D. Grimm has wanted to write stories since second grade (kind of young to make life decisions, but whatever) and nothing has changed since then (well, plenty of things actually, but not that!). Thankfully, she has indulgent parents who let her dream, but also made sure she understood she’d need a steady job to pay the bills (they never let her forget it!). After graduating from the University of Oregon and majoring in English, (let’s be honest: useless degree, what else was she going to do with it?) she started on her writing career and couldn’t be happier. Working by day and writing by night (or any spare time she can carve out), she enjoys embarking on romantic quests and daring adventures (living vicariously, you could say) and creating characters that always triumph against the villain, (or else what’s the point?) finding their soul mate in the process.
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