by S D Simper
“I feel like I can recreate none of that with Ayla, so I’ll pretend you didn’t say it.”
“So, this is about Ayla,” Etolié said, and Flowridia saw a hint of ire in the knowing smirk twisting her lip. “Have you heard from her at all?”
Grateful that Thalmus and Etolié never spoke, Flowridia shook her head. Much easier to lie non-verbally.
“But you’ve been thinking about her?”
“I’ve wondered how she’s been,” Flowridia said truthfully. Careful to divert the attention from herself, Flowridia added, “Sora said elves love art and science. It makes me wonder if undead elves would appreciate the same.”
Etolié laughed as she withdrew her flask. “Sora loves to talk about elves like she isn’t one. Elves are notoriously racist and generally stick to their own. For all you might see here, or in the Theocracy, there are virtually no non-elves across the sea.”
Etolié began to drink. Flowridia forgot, at times, that their ruling council was uncommonly diverse, with its inclusion of a half-giant, a Celestial, and who Flowridia was fairly confident was a particularly large De’Sindai. Marielle’s father had deemed it necessary; if they were to care for freed-slaves, they ought to employ what were historically slave races. A definite risk: Humans and their Celestial counterparts got along well, thus their continued ties to the Solviran Empire.
Other races tended to fight.
“So, you’re going to pursue this relationship with Ayla?”
The more Etolié drank, the easier it was to see the forced humor on her face. Flowridia simply shrugged.
“Ambitious of you,” Etolié said, and again she took a drink. “You ever had a relationship before?”
“I’ve never had the opportunity.”
Etolié offered the flask forward. Flowridia gently shook her head. But Etolié pushed, eyebrow raised as she held her arm out. “Take it.”
Flowridia accepted.
“You’re compliant, Flowers,” Etolié said, and she suddenly snatched it back, “and that concerns me. If you don’t want alcohol, tell me no.”
“I don’t care for the taste, or the effects,” Flowridia admitted, words as shy as she felt.
“Listen, what I mean is, don’t go along with things if you don’t want them.” Flowridia’s posture turned inward as she waited for Etolié to say her piece. “Or do, but if you want something, take it. You have my permission to make a few waves.”
It left a lingering question, one Etolié had hinted at more than once. Flowridia had never spoken of the life she’d lived before this one. She clasped her hands behind her back, careful to filter the truth as she chose her words. “Coming here, to Staelash,” Flowridia began slowly, “has been a dream, and one I don’t deserve.” Etolié frowned, but Flowridia continued before she could object. “There’s no danger here, but compliance is a survival technique. It’s a habit that’ll take time to break.”
Etolié took a tentative step forward, her own posture matching Flowridia’s. “Your power isn’t something to be afraid of.”
“I’ve seen it do terrible things,” Flowridia whispered, and her hands began to fidget.
“If you ever need to talk-”
“I don’t.”
Etolié’s hands came forward, as if to clasp her own, but instead she gripped Flowridia’s forearm. Her drunken serenity faded into something fierce. “Ask me to get rid of Ayla Darkleaf, and she’ll never speak to you again.”
“I haven’t made a decision,” Flowridia whispered, but the threat of a smile tugged at her lip when she realized Etolié cared, even if she showed her devotion differently than most. Whatever the Celestial’s eccentricities, Etolié would never make an idle threat.
Yet, the offer highlighted a truth that unsettled her – that there was a choice to be made.
The Celestial withdrew her hands and disappeared behind the shelf. “Keep yourself busy,” she heard Etolié say. “Dust off my shelves if you need a distraction.”
Flowridia did so, channeling her anxiety into meticulously dusting off the trinkets and books.
* * *
With the ear secure around her neck, Flowridia dressed in her night clothes. “Come to bed, Demitri.”
If I get in bed, I’ll fall asleep.
“That’s the point of bedtime.”
Were we going to wait for Ayla?
Oh, that had been jested. Flowridia offered an uneasy smile. “I don’t think she’d like that. I-I don’t want to ruin her game.”
But how can it be a game if you don’t know how to play?
Curiosity piqued, Flowridia nodded, despite the pit in her stomach. “I’ll wait with you.”
Demitri said nothing else, content to avoid bedtime, it seemed. Flowridia blew out the candle lighting her room and crawled into bed. “Goodnight, dearest Demitri.”
Goodnight, mom.
The moonlight through the window barely flickered; if Ayla were to appear, Flowridia feared she’d miss her. But she lay in silence, staring at the window through drooping eyelids.
Silence. Shuffling from beneath the bed meant Demitri still stirred. Faint whistling wind from outside stole her focus. Sleeping with the window shut might be the smarter move, but what if that were Ayla’s only entrance?
The possibility of Ayla not showing up at all wasn’t lost on her. An odd chance she took, to stay up all night, and . . . and do what, exactly? Not confront her. Not even seduce her. What did she want? Contact? Conversation?
The image of charred skin and a hateful gaze still seared her memory, welling guilt in her stomach. At her sternum, she gently touched the severed ear, growing accustomed to the eerie feeling of dead flesh against her fingers.
The entire bed jostled when she turned over. The moon’s placement in the sky suggested she had a long wait ahead of her.
Darkness descended; the moon grew dim.
* * *
The flickering fire cast a shadow upon the walls that did not quite match Mother’s form.
Something monstrous moved with her gestures, something feathered and large. It resembled nothing of Mother’s body, even with her barely swollen womb.
The slight tug on Flowridia’s head pulled her back into the moment. “Almost done, Flower Child,” Mother soothed, the brush detangling her hair by bits and pieces. With pregnancy had come the return of motherly instinct, or so it seemed; Flowridia remained constantly on edge for a cruelty she hadn’t seen in nearly two months.
Mother released her, then placed a large mirror in her hands. Flowridia saw Mother’s face beside her own, doppelgangers to the other, though Mother’s skin held a paler shade than her own amber hues. Flowridia’s hair had been pulled into a twist, a large flower – one Flowridia had grown – tucked behind her ear, and she couldn’t deny that it looked lovely.
“You’re a beautiful girl,” Mother said as she stepped away, and with her, the shadow shifted, revealing the oddity of its movements. “Be careful with that. Treasures are often sought to be claimed, and you, my darling, are a gem.”
Flowridia felt a rise of something dreadful and unknown in her stomach. Resisting the urge to tear the flower from her hair, she asked, “I don’t understand what you mean?”
Mother’s chuckle held malice. “I suppose you came here young enough to have avoided the advances of men. Some men are beautiful and good, Flower Child, and I truly hope you meet one who sweeps you off your feet.”
Flowridia fought to suppress her rising panic.
“But the wicked ones will seek to cage you, whether you like it or not,” Mother continued, any good humor fading into something wistful. “Have I ever told you of Rulan?”
Flowridia shook her head, grateful for the change in subject. “Was he someone you loved?”
Mother cracked a smile. “Yes, but not in the way you mean. He was my familiar – a great, magnificent owl, and the wisest friend I ever had. Rulan came to me when I was but a medicine woman in the village yonder, long ago.” Unspoken sadness tugged at Mother
’s smile, and when she spoke again, sorrow laced the words. “This was in the era when the Solviraes weren’t the benevolent monarchs they are now, but tyrants of their empire. Their crimes were many, but most infamous were the witch hunts.”
Flowridia had heard of such, when religious purity reigned supreme and all those pledged to demon gods were burned at the stake.
“I was found. Luckily for me, the crown prince personally accompanied the hunting party and deemed me worthy of saving, but for a cost. A marriage proposal . . . and letting Rulan be slain.
“Of course, when I refused, he slit Rulan’s throat anyway. All of my power funneled away. I was helpless when he claimed me nonetheless.”
Never had Flowridia pitied the woman who birthed her; not until this day.
“I was granted the kindness of keeping Rulan’s body,” Mother sneered. “As I was taken to the capitol city, I prayed to the demon who had granted me Rulan. I did not know his face or name, but I pled for aid. A voice in my head told me that for the cost of a child, I would be granted all that was lost and more. I agreed.”
The glee in Mother’s eyes as she spoke of the ensuring chaos and slaughter of her captors prickled at the hair on Flowridia’s neck, chills sweeping across her skin. Rulan’s power, she said, descended upon her, and they became one.
Though the idea of consuming her familiar revolted Flowridia down to her very soul, her heart understood. She watched the shifting shadow her mother cast, and she felt immutable sadness for the loss.
* * *
Flowridia bolted into a sitting position, the faint light of morning threatening to peak over the horizon. Frustrated, she let her head fall into her hands.
Beside her, Demitri slept. When had he joined her?
Her eyes travelled to her bedside table. A single, red rose lay upon it.
Careful to not crush Demitri, Flowridia leaned over and grabbed it. A shy smile spread across her face, the worry of last night evaporating like the morning dew.
Her hands moved to lightly scratch at Demitri’s fur. He rolled into her touch, turning onto his back as one eye opened. I did my part. Let me sleep.
“Did you see her?” Her long hair moved to frame his little body as she peered down from above. “Tell me that, and I’ll leave you alone.”
I saw her. Demitri began to roll back over.
“Wait, wait!” Flowridia curled up beside him, staring at his sleepy face. “Tell me what happened. Did she say anything?”
Demitri opened his eyes again, blinking heavily as more words appeared in Flowridia’s head. She saw me watching. He yawned, his over-sized jaw stretching wide to reveal sharp incisors. She asked me to tell you something.
Flowridia hung onto his small, childish voice.
She said when there are twelve roses in the vase, she’ll appear. Demitri stood on his hind legs, and his tongue gave a quick lick to Flowridia’s cheek. She also asked me to deliver that. Then, she was gone.
“Did she kiss your cheek or actually lick it?”
She licked it.
Somehow, that was more arousing.
Flowridia turned her gaze to the vase by the window. Two roses stood tall, soon to be joined by the third in her hand. Her heart fluttered at the thought.
“Thank you, Demitri,” she whispered, and she kissed his nose. Careful to not jostle the sleepy pup, she stood and left the room, still in her nightclothes.
Outside, the early morning air chilled her through her thin nightgown, and she wrapped her arms around herself. Dew soaked her feet, but the feeling of sunshine on her face was more than worth the cold. She smiled, letting the sunrise further warm her heart.
Ayla had returned. Ayla would return again. And for a moment, her fear and guilt were assuaged.
In her garden, the ambiance of nature and life filled her senses with joy. Flowridia breathed in the sweet air, the fruits of all her hard work, and let the singing of birds lead her steps.
Alone, she continued to her destination, that of her newest project. Flowridia knelt beside the patch of dirt near the gardenias, where fragile, precious spots of green had already begun to sprout. A shy smile tugged at her lip. Flowridia placed her hands on the dirt, letting pure energy wash into the ground, her own reserve giving life and growth to this new creation. Nothing visibly changed, but Flowridia, upon brushing against a miniscule stem, could feel them sing in joy at the offering.
She went on her way. At the rose bushes, their deep, blushing red gave her pause, and she let her hand stroke against the soft petals. A near perfect match to her own gifted roses, but did she dare tease her shadowed suitor? Ayla had said she would reappear once twelve roses appeared in the vase.
Flowridia, with care to match the length of the stems and the color, went about cutting nine matching roses.
“Flowers!”
Flowridia nearly jumped at Etolié’s voice.
The Celestial approached, her light feet barely indenting the dewed grass. “You’re a predictable duckling. If you’re not in the kitchen, you’re always here.”
“It’s a good place to clear my head,” she said honestly. Flowridia nonchalantly kept her arms behind her back, hiding her bouquet. “But I can make you breakfast-”
“While I appreciate the gesture, I’m capable of making my own food.” To Flowridia’s surprise, Etolié sat down, apparently giving no care to what the grass might do to her silk gown. “That came out poorly. Make me food because you want to, not because you feel like you have to.”
Self-conscious, Flowridia gave a slow nod.
Etolié collapsed on the ground, her back to the cool grass. Gentle speckles of sunlight illuminated her fair skin, and her silver hair glittered like the stars she had descended from. “Your garden makes me want to nap. That’s not an insult. I think I could sleep sober in here.”
Birds sang a comforting song, and the flowers radiated a tune of their own, one of familiar magic and protection.
“This world wasn’t meant for magic,” Etolié said softly. “It damages the fabric of the dimension. When angels started partying with humans, it brought much more than half-breed children.”
Flowridia wasn’t sure why Etolié waxed poetic on history, but the serenity on her face spoke volumes. By her own admission, Etolié felt magic, felt it prickling at her skin and tangling into her hair. Drinking, she said, dulled the perpetual annoyance.
“But your magic, the way you weave it into the earth, is the most natural I’ve ever felt.” She released a sigh, pursed lips spreading into a smile. “I don’t know how you do it, Flowers.”
“Attention to detail?” Flowridia offered, and Etolié chuckled in response.
“I did come here for a reason. Marielle called a meeting. Apparently we’ve received an interesting letter.”
“It’s early for a meeting. Will anyone else be there?”
To Flowridia’s surprise, Etolié’s dress remained pristine, despite the threat of grass stains. “To say Marielle’s sense of prioritizing is broken would be an understatement,” Etolié replied, offering Flowridia a hand. “I told her unless she served breakfast, it’d be her and me. And you, I suppose, but I’m not convinced you ever sleep either.” Etolié clutched the air and pulled a robe from what appeared to be a tear in the sky. She offered it to Flowridia. “Wear this over your nightgown.”
Flowridia accepted the night robe, marveled at the weight, and said, “Is it actually real?”
“As real as my dress.”
With an amused smile, Flowridia slipped her arms through the illusionary sleeves and followed Etolié out.
In the council room, Flowridia found she wasn’t the only one wearing nightclothes – Meira seemed only half awake, her head resting on her fist as she snoozed in her throne. Sora stood at her side, alert for the early morning.
Khastra didn’t sit. Instead, the crystal hammer sat in her throne, and Khastra leisurely polished the shaft.
Thalmus sat quietly but nodded at Flowridia’s entrance. Marielle, sittin
g on her throne, smiled brightly. “Oh, good. Flowridia, this involves you.”
Panic caused her to stop in her tracks. “What?”
“This is a matter of diplomacy. And you’re the diplomat.”
“Doesn’t mean she’s required to fix any bad news,” Etolié interjected, settling into her seat. In her hand, she dangled a flask. “But she might be the messenger.”
The words did little to soothe Flowridia’s concerns.
Once everyone was seated, Marielle withdrew a letter from her robe. “As I think we all remember, we had a meeting with the ambassador from Tholheim after my coronation. We’ve received news. The missing prince and his comrades have been found.” Marielle’s hesitation grew palpable, and she glanced nervously between Etolié and Thalmus. “According to the sole survivor’s account, there’s been a slave camp discovered due north-”
Etolié immediately shot to her feet. Thalmus’ grip on his throne grew tense, and Flowridia wondered when the wood would crack. “Oh?” Etolié said.
“The letter insists this be approached diplomatically,” Marielle said, flinching when Etolié snatched the letter from her hands. Flowridia saw, torn but unmistakable, the seal of the Tholheimer Royal family.
“What I don’t understand,” Khastra said, inspecting her own reflection in the shined weapon, “is why we need to interfere in Tholheimer politics. If they wish to conduct slavery in their own territory, it’s their prerogative.”
“Because it’s on our border,” Etolié all but spat. “And they’re specifically asking for our presence to discuss solutions.”
Marielle spoke up. “The letter requests I come personally to the border city of Molt.”
Etolié frowned as she continued studying the letter. “Why you?”
Marielle frowned, eyes narrowing. “Perhaps in deference to the times my father personally mediated political situations for foreign parties? I should be there. You’re too personally invested to-”