by Aja James
“By your leave,” he intoned.
I would not give him leave! He would not ever have my permission! He made my fucking wife fall in love with him without any “by your leave.” Fucking hypocrite!
But what I said was, “Stop that, you ninny. We’re not on public display here. You don’t have to be formal with me and Kira.”
Dalair remained stoically silent, simply waiting.
“Oh very well, go,” I said finally, unable to bear one more moment in his presence. “I shall see you at supper tonight. Just you and me, as I know you dislike crowds. We have much to catch up on, brother.”
He turned heel abruptly and marched down the hill at that. It did not escape my notice that he had not embraced me in return. Had not even smiled upon seeing me again after ten years of absence.
Kira didn’t seem happy to see me either, as we leisurely walked down the hill together moments after Dalair left. She was lost in her own thoughts, her usual vivacity wholly subdued.
I knew then, without a doubt, that neither of them had any real love for me. It was all a pretense after all. The brotherly bond was fake. The friendship with my wife was fake.
My fantasy bubble had finally burst.
*** *** *** ***
When I regurgitated the concocted story Mistress Anunit told me to tell to convince Dalair what he needed to do that night, I was resigned to the fact that it would happen: My brother was going to fuck my wife, and she was going to love it.
I spewed lies left and right, playing on a conversation we’d had when we were boys. I pretended that I just couldn’t get it up (which was actually true, which made my woeful story even more authentic) because I preferred men to women. The princess’s life was in danger because of my inability to impregnate her with strapping Persian sons. Dalair had better come to her rescue and stuff her full of his heroic seed. Blah, blah, blah.
What I said to him and what he said in return (which wasn’t but a handful of words) weren’t important. What I paid attention to in this whole exchange was the way his face and eyes changed with his thoughts and feelings.
I saw his fear for the princess’s life. I saw his exultation and shame when it dawned upon him what I was asking. He wanted it. His body practically vibrated like a tuning fork with his yearning for hers. He seemed genuinely horrified by the request.
But he didn’t refuse it.
And that night, when Dalair pretended to be me, slipping into Kira’s bedchamber, I lurked just outside the locked door when the guards had been dismissed and were gone from the premises.
Half of me wanted to charge inside and rail at them for betraying me. The other, more reasonable half, sat my bony ass down on the floor against the wall. The walls were not as thick as I thought. Perhaps I was concentrating very hard. Or maybe it was all in my own head—
I heard every sigh, every moan, every little proof of pleasure from within. Pleasure I could never give my wife. That deep, total connection to another living being that I could never achieve with anyone.
I held my face in my hands and cried.
*** *** *** ***
Two days later, Dalair left again without a word to anyone. A few days after that, Kira left too. Ostensibly rushing to her badly ailing mama, going back to the homeland she hadn’t seen in ten years.
I didn’t delude myself that she was coming back. Perhaps she’d find a way to carry on with the love of her life in Egypt. It was commonplace for married royalty to have abundant paramours. After all, most marriages were formed for political alliance, nothing more. I had naively thought that wasn’t Kira and me, but what did I know. Obviously nothing.
I almost wished they would carry on right here in Persepolis, right beneath my nose in the palace. At least then, they’d still be here. With me.
After my sob fest the night my brother fucked my wife, I did some practical internal calculations. So what if Dalair and Kira loved each other better than they would ever love me? So what if my love for them would never be even one-tenth returned?
They cared about me, right? It wasn’t all lies? We could make it work, the three of us. I could turn a blind eye.
I was never going to fuck my wife (or anyone else, if I could help it) anyway, so what right did I have to feel cheated? Taken from her point of view, I was an unforgivably inadequate and selfish husband. How could I deny someone I loved pleasure? And if she couldn’t get it from me, shouldn’t she be allowed to get it elsewhere?
With such unassailable logic on my side, I saddled my horse and snuck out of the palace without the requisite guards. My plan was to travel to Egypt and bring Kira back. Bring them both back, if I could. Dalair was at the front again, leading the charge against King Cyrus’ enemies. I’d convince Kira first, and then we’d convince Dalair together.
As for the Mistress’s schemes…I’d deal with that when the time came.
Surely I could outsmart her for another few decades? Dalair and Kira weren’t going to live forever, after all, being the frail humans that they were. Surely the Mistress could delay mass destruction or whatever terrible calamity she was plotting for the world for a century or so?
Lost in my own self-pity and righteous fury for the past few days, I hadn’t fully digested the Mistress’s words. I did so now, as I raced toward Zau.
Dalair was the “trigger” for Kira. Trigger for what? What could Kira possibly do? She was just a human woman. No Gifts. So fragile. But the Mistress always knew much more than she let on. Something was going to happen with Kira, I felt it in my ruined soul.
I urged my steed to go faster. I had to stop it.
Please, almighty gods that be, don’t let anything happen to my heart and my light.
I needed them in my life the way I needed air. It might have started in pretense, but the feelings I felt for Dalair and Kira were more real than anything else across the entirety of my existence.
They made me feel alive. They gave my life meaning.
I loved them, I loved them, I loved them!
It didn’t matter that they didn’t love me back. They made me human.
When I arrived at the imposing gates of Zau, they were strangely open. There were no sentries on the ramparts, no citizens milling in the city square within.
Where had everyone gone?
I followed the stragglers who all headed in one direction—up a hill, toward a temple, upon which plateau the masses had gathered. I shoved my way through the crowd, trying to see what everyone was avidly watching. I could hear the sounds of a brutal battle waging beyond the forest of bystanders.
Was this some sort of impromptu gladiator match? But there was no cheering; no sounds from the spectators, as if they were all holding their collective breath.
When I finally pushed through the last ring of the crowd, I was just in time to see Dalair fall.
My heart stopped. My mouth opened on a silent scream.
What was happening?! Why was he here? Why was he lying bloody and defeated on the dirt ground?!
His opponent stabbed him in the torso, the awful sound accompanied by a spray of blood.
Dalair closed his eyes.
No! Get up! You’re the mightiest warrior across the empire! You have to get up!
I pushed past the barricade of human bodies and lurched toward him. But something froze me mid stride.
All was still and silent. I could hear my own heart thrashing in my chest, my blood roaring through my ears. I could see speckles of dust catching errant strands of starlight in the eerie, tomb-like night. My eyes shifted of their own volition toward something—someone—standing on a dais straight ahead.
Kira. Mistress of Light.
But there was no light in her bleak, black eyes as I stared into them, completely frozen where I stood. There was only darkness, pain and wrath.
And then—
She rained vengeance upon us all.
*** *** *** ***
If you wondered whether I lived
, I did. But I hadn’t survived.
When I finally opened my eyes, I was in the Mistress’s “care,” in some sort of underground compound.
“Hmm. You live. I was right about you. You must be very strong indeed to still possess your corporal form, even if I did have to revive you with another piece of my soul.”
More of the Mistress’s evil inside of me? Oh goodie.
“All other living beings within a hundred mile radius had had their souls snuffed out like candles in the wind when Kira unleashed her rage.”
Souls snuffed out…?
“Unfortunately, she wore herself out as well. I suppose it was only a one-time thing. Now I have to wait another gods know how long before I find her next incarnation.”
Incarnation? Well, you could argue that this was my third. Please, gods, let it be my last.
“You weren’t supposed to be there, little Creature. What were you thinking? Good help is so hard to find.” This last bit the Mistress muttered to herself.
“But perhaps this is all for the best. You now have so much of me within you that you’re like an extension of myself.”
I closed my eyes at that lovely news. So, if I was comprehending correctly, Dalair was dead. Kira was dead. And tens of thousands of other people were dead.
But lucky me. I was alive. The Mistress revived me.
“Think the way I think,” she continued her monologue. “My beautiful, terrible, monstrous little Creature.”
Yes. That’s what I was. Her Creature.
That was all I would ever be.
Epilogue
*THE CREATURE*
Once upon a time, there was a cuckoo who fell in love with a duckling. The cuckoo did his best to learn how to swim, despite his lack of webbed feet and oiled feathers. But alas, he was a cuckoo, and therefore didn’t belong in the glistening blue waters of the lily-pad pond. So, the beautiful, fluffy, golden duckling turned away with a huff, and paired off with her own kind.
Dejected, the cuckoo moved on. And fell in love with an eaglet.
He did his best to soar through the skies, despite his short wings and ungainly tail. But alas, he was a cuckoo, and therefore didn’t belong in the highest clouds above the highest mountains that rose majestically from the sea. So, the regal, discerning, handsome eaglet turned away with a squawk, and paired off with her own kind.
Heart-broken, the cuckoo moved on. And stumbled directly into a viper’s pit.
He didn’t want to hiss, spit, and sink his fangs (since he didn’t have any) into other hapless prey that the viper hunted. But alas, no one else wanted him; he didn’t belong. So, the mesmerizing, manipulative, poisonous viper took him in. Filled him with venom, numbed him with lies.
Until the cuckoo no longer had the will to move on. And so he stayed in the viper’s pit. Forever and ever.
The end.
“That’s not a very nice fairytale, Uncle Binu.”
Benjamin looks at me with those big, soulful blue eyes, his face full of disappointment. And perhaps sadness for the poor, miserable little cuckoo.
“I never said my fairytales were nice,” I respond. “You asked me to tell you a story. I did.”
“But why does the cuckoo not fly out of the viper’s nest?”
“Maybe his wings were broken when he tumbled into the pit.”
“Why doesn’t the viper eat the cuckoo?”
I cock an eyebrow at him. Bloodthirsty little boy, isn’t he? Like father like... Well, you know the rest.
“Why indeed,” I say rhetorically. “Perhaps the viper knows that the cuckoo doesn’t taste good and is too lazy to bother.”
Benjamin frowns at me in consideration. I can practically hear the gears of his stupendous brain turning.
“Did you know that cuckoos are sacred to the goddess Hera in Greek mythology? Zeus turned himself into one to seduce her, whatever that means. I Googled the bird last night, since your stories feature them so often.”
“You don’t say.”
“And that they’re linked to the season Spring? In India, cuckoos are sacred to Kamadeva, the god of desire and longing, whereas in Japan, it symbolizes unrequited love. That might be word for word from Wikipedia.”
“I’m relieved that you cite your sources so diligently, Benjamin,” I intone.
“They’re also monogamous—I do know what that means, I looked it up. It means that cuckoos only have one mate.”
“And yet, they are the poster child of unrequited love,” I point out. “So, I guess they never find that one true mate, doomed to forever desire and long for something they can never have.”
Benjamin’s scowl gets deeper at this.
“Why must you focus on the unhappy parts?”
“You’re the one who brought these tidbits to my attention, Benjamin. I am merely summarizing the insights back to you.”
“Well, I have a different version of the story, and I like mine better.”
“Do tell.”
He sits up straighter on my bed. We’re both sitting pretzel-legged on top of the comforter, eating grapes out of a shared bowl. The giant kitten purrs sonorously next to me, her eyes squeezed into crescent moons of happiness. She does love her catnaps, this strange, spotted kitten.
“Once upon a time, a baby cuckoo is born in a nest of phoenixes. Because you know, a great variety of cuckoos practice brood parasitism.”
“I am ever impressed by your expanding vocabulary, Benjamin,” I say truthfully.
“It means that the parent cuckoos tend to lay eggs in other bird species’ nests. Then, the baby cuckoo pretends to be the offspring of the other birds in order to survive.”
“Tricky, tricky little fucker,” I murmur.
“What?”
“Bugger,” I amend. “Tricky little bugger.”
“Anyway, the cuckoo is born in a nest of phoenixes. Cuz, after dragons, they’re my favorite mythical creatures.”
I nod sagely, hungrily absorbing this piece of information about Benjamin as I do with all the other tidbits he unknowingly throws my way.
“The phoenixes love the cuckoo right away, because he’s funny, and he makes them laugh all the time.”
“Oh, he’s funny all right,” I mutter.
Benjamin ignores me.
“The cuckoo falls in love with one of the phoenix babies, a girl bird born of ashes from a previous life. Because, you know, phoenixes are born from the ashes of their predecessors.”
“Spooky.”
“He doesn’t know it’s her, but he’s loved the phoenix before. And so he desires and longs without knowing why.”
“Are you sure you’re eight years old?”
“Eight going on nine,” he interjects proudly.
“Eight going on eighty,” I mumble.
“Anyway, he falls in love. And the phoenix loves him too. They finally find each other after all this time. Turns out, it was Destiny. The cuckoo was meant to be in that nest at that time. And so they live happily ever after. With the family of phoenixes. The end.”
“But he’s still a cuckoo,” I argue.
“Of course he is,” Benjamin says, as if he’s explaining things to a dim-witted child. You’ve gotta love the role reversal.
“He will always be a cuckoo, and she will always be a phoenix. But they’re supposed to be who they are because that’s how they find each other and fall in love.”
“Let me get this right,” I insert. “The cuckoo is meant to be with a phoenix.”
“Yes.”
“A giant, mythical, golden, flaming, gorgeous, winged creature is meant to be with an ugly, gaudy, big-mouthed runt who, if we want to put a fine point on it, is an embarrassment to all bird-kind?”
His little face scrunches up.
“A cuckoo is not ugly. There are many different families of cuckoos. The Blue Coua of Madagascar, for example, is quite pretty. Its feathers can take on a violet, pinkish tint. And then there’s the wh
ite-browed coucal of Africa. Its coloring—”
“I take your point,” I abruptly interrupt. When will I learn that it’s useless to argue with Benjamin?
“So you see,” he concludes, “the cuckoo and the phoenix are meant to be together. They live happily ever after.”
“Amen,” I huff, exhausted after that intellectual skirmish, in which I was annihilated by the brilliance of an eight-going-on-nine-year-old.
He tilts his head a little and spears me with those laser-blue eyes.
“You don’t believe me.”
“I think my version of the story is more realistic than yours,” I carefully suggest.
“But you get to make up whatever story you want,” he says. “Who cares if it’s realistic? It’s a story. And it’s yours. Do you want the cuckoo to live with the vile viper forever? Do you want him to suffer?”
“Maybe he deserves to suffer,” I point out.
“Well, I don’t want him to. I like the cuckoo.”
Benjamin punctuates this statement by stuffing three fat grapes into his mouth and glaring stubbornly at me, arms crossed mutinously over his small chest, daring me to argue. I don’t have the strength or wits to hold my ground.
“Very well,” I concede defeat, “the ungainly, ugly cuckoo mates with a beautiful, tall phoenix. The end.”
Satisfied that he’s philosophically beaten me into submission, Benjamin turns to other topics as we finish our snack.
My mind wonders a bit while I listen to him talk.
My escape from the Pure Ones’ stronghold is long overdue. Though my Mistress has been silent thus far, the part of me that belongs to her itches to return to her venomous, sadistic bosom. I am her Creature, after all. Everything I am, everything I have, belongs to her.
I take in Benjamin’s joyful, glowing visage, engraving it in my memory, my very psyche. I sink my hand into the kitten’s thick, soft fur, stroking her back until her contented purr practically shakes the whole bed.
And suddenly it comes to me: This is my story.
I get to write the next chapter and decide on the ending. I don’t belong here, among the beautiful, magical phoenixes, but I don’t want to leave. I want to bask in Benjamin’s sunlight and hero worship Tal-Telal to my twisted, black heart’s content. I want to eat good food and sleep without nightmares.