by S D Simper
When Khastra stepped back again, presumably to leave, Flowridia couldn’t help but softly say, “You don’t care?”
The general stopped, amusement tugging at her lip. “What you and Lady Ayla do in your bedroom is not my business.”
“Don’t tell Etolié, please.”
Khastra chuckled. “Etolié has little understanding or care for sex. I would not wish to scar her.”
Khastra really didn’t care, it seemed. Surprised at the relief it brought, Flowridia said, “Thank you. I-” She stopped herself, shy to ask what had prickled at her mind for days now. “May I ask you something?” she finally whispered.
“You may.” Khastra frowned. “But sit down first. You look faint.”
Lightheaded, Flowridia managed to sit at the foot of her bed. Khastra joined her, picking up the bowl of pumpkin seeds and placing it in Flowridia’s lap. “Eat. No leaving this bed until you’ve finished them all.”
Tentatively, Flowridia took a small handful and popped it into her mouth. “I never knew you were half demon,” she said when she’d swallowed.
“It is not a secret,” Khastra replied. “Though I did cast away my lineage long ago. My mother is the demon goddess, Ku’Shya.”
Flowridia nearly choked on her next bite of pumpkin seeds. Demons weren’t nearly so cohesive as their angelic counterparts, most of whom deferred to Sol Kareena. To say Ku’Shya – Goddess of War, The Great Spider, rumored to feast upon the flesh of those slain in her name – ruled Sha’Demoni would be false. But she held a greater following than any other, perpetually at odds with Izthuni, the Lurker.
Coughing, Flowridia took a sip of water, carefully selecting her next phrase. “Are you ever ashamed?”
Khastra shook her head. “I could not have chosen my mother any more than you could have chosen yours.”
She knew Khastra couldn’t have meant to imply Flowridia’s mother was as twisted as a goddess who gained power through brutal, bloody deaths. Still, the memory of dark words lingered forever in her head, spoken by a woman whose image she bore and whose power and knowledge she had inherited: “You’re a gem in my lineage, Flower Child.”
“You overthink,” Khastra said, and Flowridia whipped her head around, realizing she had been staring at the bowl of half-eaten pumpkin seeds. “There is no heavier burden than a secret, tiny one. Whatever is on you mind, tell it to someone you trust. And then, tell it again. Each time, it will be easier.”
Flowridia took another handful of seeds, only half of the bowl gone despite her full stomach. “That’s what you did?”
“After a few thousand years, it is as easy as saying, ‘good morning.’”
Perhaps, at a later date, Khastra would be a trusted ear, but for now Flowridia’s thoughts lingered on Ayla.
With a slow nod, Flowridia moved to stand. A strong hand on her shoulder pushed her back down. “I told you to finish eating.”
“I’m full, though,” Flowridia said, cringing at her own pitiful words.
Khastra glanced at the bowl and without hesitation took an enormous handful. “You have taken after Etolié’s appetite,” she said with a chuckle. She stuffed the seeds into her mouth and left the room.
Flowridia popped the last of the seeds into her mouth and swallowed without chewing.
* * *
Ayla was nowhere – not the kitchen, nor the garden. Flowridia wondered if she were at the embassy and returned to her bedroom to change into proper attire for trekking across town.
In her room, Flowridia found her quarry. With her back to the door, Ayla sat hunched at the foot of Flowridia’s bed, legs folded, a shining rod in her hands. She stared down, dark hair loose and shielding her face, as she turned the odd object over in her fingers.
Flowridia shut the door, cautiously moving to seat herself at the side of the bed.
The burn that once ravaged Ayla’s face had vanished.
With a light tap against Ayla’s hand, the rod sparked with golden light. Flowridia gasped when the skin of Ayla’s palm sizzled and burned away, leaving raw, charred flesh. She flexed her hand, the whites and meaty pinks of her tendons twitching in turn.
By steady degrees, Flowridia watched the wound stitch itself together. Layers of skin grew and reformed. The ghastly wound healed in seconds.
Again, Ayla tapped her hand. Skin burned, but Ayla didn’t flinch. The wound sealed shut, not even a scar left in place. “Were I to tap this against you, it would heal the marks I left on your neck. I stole it from a temple in Nox’Kartha,” Ayla said, her words void of feeling. She stared blankly at her palm as she repeated the gesture, over and over, until she pressed the rod harder into the skin, and Flowridia clenched her own fists, unable to hide her horror as the flesh burned, the rod penetrating deeper, bones snapping like sticks.
When Ayla finally stopped, the burn remained. She stared a moment at her mutilated hand, then offered it forward. “With focus, I can slow the healing,” Ayla whispered, her eyes to the bed, “but I can’t stop it entirely.”
Ayla took her hand back, the skin slowly knitting together. “It’s a delight, what guilt can do, the power I can take from it.” Ayla set the rod aside. Her face fell into her hands, fingers tangling into her hair as she revealed the empty hole of her ear and the utterly pristine skin around it.
Flowridia understood. Ayla’s fingers gripped her hair, but Flowridia felt them clenching at her chest.
Ayla finally looked up, her vibrant eyes glistening. “Casvir hadn’t believed it when I said some mewling cunt had interfered with my mission to spy on your household. I told him your name, and he had the audacity to laugh. I hated you, but I couldn’t stop thinking of you, how you insulted my pride with your game of chess. I resolved to break you. So, when you so spectacularly burned my face, you unknowingly gave me a gift.”
Each word stripped Flowridia’s heart into pieces, layer by layer. Tears welled in her eyes. Flowridia’s hand moved to cover her trembling lip, but Ayla continued. “What fun I had. You had taken power from me, so I resolved to steal everything from you – your body, your heart, enthrall you to my whim. I’ve killed for far pettier things. But I couldn’t steal what you freely gave.”
On nimble feet, Ayla suddenly stood, hands flying out to grip the bedpost. She turned, eyes crazed as she matched Flowridia’s gaze. “I sought to own you, but I’m enslaved by your presence. You dance through my mind, obsessively, perpetually, the scent of your flowers driving me mad.” The wood cracked under Ayla’s grip. “But more than that, more than your beauty or the touch of your skin, you cared.”
Flowridia’s fists clenched to staunch the threatened tears, and her bleeding heart drowned any words her mind could dare to spell.
When she stood up, Ayla flinched, stepping back against the wall and sliding down as her words continued spilling. “So many have loved me, have worshipped the very air I allowed them to breathe, but you worried for me. You saw me not as a monster, nor a weapon to wield.” Ayla pulled her knees to her chest as tears streamed down her cheeks. “With you, I feel loved; I feel . . .” Her eyes shut, her words silent until Ayla whispered with hushed veneration, “I feel safe. With you, I can be merely Ayla, and that is enough.”
In careful, measured movements, Flowridia stepped away from the bed. Ayla shook from quiet sobs, face buried in her hands. Never had Flowridia seen such raw, shattered guilt so personified.
Ayla seemed to sense her approach. She stared up, tears falling fast. “I have done nothing but hurt you and push you away.” Her composure dangled on a thread, Flowridia saw, summoned only by desperation. “Tell me to leave, I beg of you. To fall in love is a weakness I cannot bear to have.”
“I did tell you to leave, once,” Flowridia whispered. “You came back.”
Ayla fell forward, gripping Flowridia’s skirts, wetting them with tears as she clung to her legs. On her knees, she sobbed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry . . .”
Oh, it stung, like claws raking her tender heart, that confession. The t
errible truth, that Thalmus was right, Etolié too: the monster Flowridia had denied had been real all along. She shut her eyes, refusing to let her angry, hot tears fall down her face. But the memories of tears she had shed for Ayla, all the worry and the pain, steadily rose, a swamp in her chest that threatened to drown the sincere love she felt for the weeping woman kneeling before her.
Love, she did. Flowridia loved Ayla. And Ayla, quite unwillingly, loved her too.
“You’ll have to prove your sincerity,” Flowridia said, and Ayla’s eyes shot up, wide as she hung onto every word. “But all things heal with time – even trust and broken hearts. I forgive you.”
Glass shattered in slow motion. Ayla crumbled, sobs shaking her form, and Flowridia knelt to collect the pieces. Clinging, cold arms held Flowridia tight.
“I’m yours, Ayla,” Flowridia said, the words reverent against her tongue. “If you’ll have me, I’m still yours.”
“I will live every day of my eternal life proving myself,” Ayla said, voice muffled by Flowridia’s neck and shoulder. “Flowra, I love you.”
Like the wounds on Ayla’s palm and face, Flowridia felt her lacerated heart begin to mend.
* * *
“Is something wrong, Ayla?”
The chill of night clung to the grass and the air, despite the sun having already risen. Flowridia held Ayla’s hand as she led the way toward her prized garden. Birds sang in the trees, compelling the sun to rise higher in the sky, and a sweet floral scent met them at the entrance.
But Ayla stopped, her sharp eyes darting between the countless bushes dotting the sides. “I know little of magic, but there is an odd feeling here.”
“Weaving spells into plants is my specialty. Mostly protective wards, spelled into the roots. I wanted a sanctuary, a place to call my own here in this foreign kingdom.” Flowridia’s grip held tight as she pulled Ayla forward, a tentative smile at her lip.
Ayla stepped through, and Flowridia felt the invisible barriers ripple and sway, parting for Ayla’s entrance as smoothly as dew dripping from a leaf.
Relief came with guilt, realizing she still held reserve for Ayla’s intentions. Trust would take time to rebuild. “Is this something you’ve done before?” Flowridia dared to ask. “Toy with hearts to try and break them?”
“Many times, I suppose, in varying ways.”
Flowridia broke away from their interlaced fingers, feeling Ayla’s eyes as she knelt before a patch of roses. Tiny buds, not yet bloomed, dotted the scene, and Flowridia stripped them of thorns before weaving them into her hair.
“There’s power that comes from subduing someone in bed,” Ayla continued, watching with interest, “and I’ve always resented what I couldn’t control.”
“Did you always kill them afterward?”
Ayla shook her head. “A few I let live, otherwise there would have been no one to remember me.”
Flowridia recalled what Sora had said, that The Endless Night was a monster the Sun Elves came to fear above all else. There was much still she didn’t understand, but the painting of Ayla’s legacy grew more vibrant and bloodstained with every new piece of information.
With practiced fingers, Flowridia wove a second bud into the crown of her hair. “Have you ever fallen in love before?”
“Yes.” Ayla watched with curious eyes as Flowridia worked. “But never during my undeath.” Cold hands wrapped around Flowridia’s waist, but Ayla made no move to stop her from threading a third rosebud into her thick locks. “My life has not always been kind to me. I’ve had to shutter and seal my heart to keep from aching. So, let me focus on the present, my sweet summer blossom.” A faint smile tugged at Ayla’s thin lips. When Flowridia dropped her hands, Ayla gently swept her in for a light kiss.
Flowridia let their foreheads touch as she breathed in the fragrant scent of the garden and of Ayla. She heard the whisper, “I would think this was a dream, except I do not sleep.”
Again, their lips touched. When Flowridia pulled back, she helped Ayla to stand and led her forward through the grassy path. “Walk with me? I’ve wanted to show you my garden for some time now.”
“It’s impressive,” Ayla said, as she glanced about. Her eyes never settled on any one thing for long, content to absorb each individual leaf. At a patch of tulips, she knelt, her fingers nearly as white as the petals. “A hobby?”
Flowridia quickly surveyed the array of flowers and plucked the most pristine, white as snow. Held lovingly in her fingers, Flowridia offered it forward. “Plants hold endless potential as spell components. Something my mother taught me – how to use them and what meanings they hold.” When Ayla accepted the gift, Flowridia said, “White tulips ask forgiveness.”
Ayla studied the flower, twirling it in her hand as she said, “I should be offering it to you.” She glanced up, brilliant eyes wide. “Of all the lovers I have had, you may be the most endearing.”
“Have there been many?”
“I’m quite old.”
“I’m not jealous,” Flowridia said, and like a duckling, she followed when Ayla moved, never more than a step or two away from her lover’s magnetic presence. “But I am curious. I don’t know if it’s rude to ask an undead woman how old she is but-”
When Ayla held up a finger, Flowridia stopped. The grin Ayla bore ran a shiver down her back. “Perhaps ‘lover’ is a crass term, given that love isn’t something I’ve experienced during my time in undeath. But I couldn’t count them if I tried, my bedmates, those I’ve fucked into submission.” Ayla glanced briefly at Flowridia’s lips before adding, “I’m one thousand, seven-hundred and thirty-six years old.” Flowridia’s jaw grew slack. “I was trapped in a coffin for four hundred years of it.”
“It makes we wonder what you see in me,” she said, realizing she couldn’t even fathom such a number. Ayla, being an elf, might have naturally lived to be several hundred years old, but to think she’d spent over half a lifespan trapped in a coffin alone . . .
Flowridia would be lucky to see seventy.
“Experience is a greater indicator of maturity than age.” Ayla stepped toward the next patch of floral beauty. Flowridia didn’t miss how she skipped from shade to shade. The sun might not burn, but it did seem to cause her discomfort. “I suppose it’s a foregone conclusion, but I must ask: have you been in love before?”
Ayla stood at the base of a tree, her hand extended. Flowridia accepted it, smiling when Ayla laced their fingers back together. They continued forward, but now Ayla’s focus seemed solely set on her, blue eyes studying Flowridia with the same scrutiny she had studied each leaf and petal. “Passing fancies,” Flowridia finally said, “but never love. You’re my first in every sense.”
“I’d wondered, with how sweet and shy you’ve been.” Ayla stood on her toes and placed a light kiss on Flowridia’s cheek. She lingered, though, placing her nose in Flowridia’s hair and breathing in lightly. “You smell like your garden.”
“Do I?” Flowridia asked, laughing.
“A bit of earth, a bit of sun, flowers, and trees, and it all gets tangled in your lovely hair. I noticed on our first night together. It’s followed me ever since.” Ayla dropped back to her feet and kissed Flowridia’s neck, breathing deep as an erotic moan left her throat. “All that masking something sweet and alluring underneath.”
Flowridia stiffened, uncomfortable at the gesture, but Ayla simply laughed. “My Sweet Flowra, you’ll always be a temptation,” Ayla cooed, pulling her close again. “I will take nothing without your express permission. Your blood is a delight, but you are the far sweeter thing.”
An eerie compliment, yet it made Flowridia blush a vivid scarlet. But it welled an insecurity Flowridia hesitated to voice. “You think very highly of me and my innocence.” Ayla’s hand slid down her neck and chest, brushing past the severed ear beneath her clothes. Flowridia gripped it when it settled at her sternum, enthralled against her heart. “If that’s all that endears me to you, I think you’ll be disappointed.”
Flowridia thought of Demitri, his childish voice and innocent worldview, and said, “I don’t know what demon grants wolves as familiars. Demitri is unique.” She pulled away, stepping towards a bush of pale, yellow roses. She spotted a blemish and stroked it with her slight fingers. “But he’s not my first,” she whispered, keeping her thumb on the bruised petal. A faint trace of light leapt from her fingers, and when she pulled away the rose shone with glossy, perfect petals.
Flowridia didn’t flinch when Ayla’s face suddenly appeared inches away from hers. “Demitri is young.”
“Not even one year old.” Dread filled Flowridia to think of what she’d lost, the friend she’d let die at her mother’s hands. “My first companion-” Her throat seized up at the memory of the name. “Aura,” she finally choked. “Her name was Aura.”
Ayla seemed to sense the reverence in the word and held Flowridia’s gaze with intrigue. She spoke slowly, each word carefully enunciated by her sensuous tongue. “And Aura is no longer with us.”
“No.” With a slight tug, she pulled Ayla away from the rose bush and farther down the grassy path. Nothing but chirping birds met their ears.
At the end of her garden stood an enormous tree, one that shaded a small alcove. A carved stone bench rested at the center, surrounded by a sea of grass, and a wall of smaller trees and bushes blocked the view from within and without. Flowridia beckoned her companion to sit, their fingers drifting apart when she began to pace. “I have told no one of this. Not even Demitri.”
Flowridia stared up to the sky, the filtered light cast through the shade of trees caressing her face. With her eyes shut, she breathed in a steadying sigh and released the air and her fear with it.
She hung her head low, her thick hair shielding her from Ayla’s view. “I killed her,” she whispered, stinging tears welling in her eyes. The statement lingered, the breeze in her hair nothing to the torrential wind of her thoughts. But she let none of that bleed into her voice. “Not personally, though I might as well have. Aura died because-” She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing herself to calm even as tears trailed down her cheeks. “. . . because I was stupid.”