“The feeling doesn’t last.”
“The memory does,” he murmurs as their feet graze below the surface.
Sorrow conceals her grimace by snatching a fig and nibbling on it. Envy studies the small grind of her mouth as she chews the morsel, her lips puckering in a manner that gnaws on his groin.
He shifts, reprimanding himself for noticing.
Not only does she keep quiet, but she has trouble swallowing.
Does she know how to relish anything? To savor anything?
Their kind are skilled in the emotions they serve, but they’re not meant to be slaves to them. Yet based on the histories of Love, Anger, and Wonder, that’s not entirely true.
On the flip side, Sorrow is hardly a drama queen. No, she’s withdrawn, a veritable tapestry of irony. She’s caustic and sardonic.
By the same token, Envy can’t recall an incident in which she has cried.
Or laughed out loud. Or expelled any uncensored sound.
Beneath him, she’d moaned. Yet she hadn’t once shouted with mindless abandon or sighed with contentment in the aftermath. It had been primal between them, an aggressive expulsion of energy, and oftentimes over quickly. Each time, the instant after she came around his shaft, hooting mechanically like a steam engine, she’d stare into space. Then she’d scramble into her clothes, uncomfortable with his lingering touches.
Is this why they’ve never kissed?
Envy scarcely calls himself sentimental, but a few minutes of fondling hurts no one. Except perhaps this one. It must be a defect on her part, because it’s certainly not his fault. He’s an unparalleled lover, to whom she’d come back for more.
Then again, what does he expect from someone who has spent her existence monitoring and managing human suffering? Does she own her hurt? Or does it belong to her mortal targets? How have they known one another for centuries, without knowing one another?
Glowing motes swim in the air, peppering the atmosphere with a firefly sort of light. For some bizarre reason, Envy’s fascinated to discover what Sorrow’s laugh sounds like. Her tears, too.
As well as the basics. Sweet or savory? Favorites? Pastimes?
“You think pain is a consequence of pleasure,” he summarizes.
She shrugs. “The more enjoyment you get from something, the more painful it is to lose it.”
“How would you know? How would you know unless you’ve taken advantage of delight? Instead, you avoid pleasure.”
“You avoid pain,” she shoots back. “That’s a shallow, cowardly, lowbrow way to live.”
“What’s lowbrow about treating yourself to the gifts of life? Why else do they exist? Why do we have senses, if not to indulge them? Taste, touch, sight, sound, smell. It’s not purely so we can reign over humanity and target mortals.”
“It’s shallow because you add no value to it beyond the present moment. All you’re thinking about is, ‘This feels so good,’ and then you chuck the feeling after you’ve gotten your endorphin hit, and you move on to the next best thing. That leaves zero room for lasting gratitude or appreciation.” She loops a strand of hair behind her ear. “I have a theory.”
“Oh?” Envy queries in mock suspense. “I’m not sure I’m ready for this.”
“True pleasure doesn’t exist unless pain comes with it. You can’t savor one thing unless you know what it’s like to be deprived of the other. Loss is inevitable. When we hurt, those comforting moments—those delights, as you say—are more meaningful. They’re treasures, but only when we understand and experience the opposite. Otherwise the pleasure is pointless.”
“That’s hardly a groundbreaking theory,” he replies mildly.
She’s nowhere near discouraged. “To that, I have another theory.”
“Do tell.” He drifts closer, jostling the silverware. “I’m all ears.”
“The simplest ideas, or the most basic ones, the rules we all know,” she vents. “We live by them as if they’re a given, but they’re still the hardest to remember. They’re the hardest to live by. And when we do remember, we’re scared or threatened, as if they’re suddenly new ideas again.
“My theories might not be groundbreaking, but that doesn’t lessen the impact. After thousands of years, people are still relearning the same lessons, drawing the same conclusions. It’s an endless cycle, both ancient and an anomaly.”
She picks through the assortment of goodies, selecting a thick cut of salmon, laying it atop a slice of nut bread, and dousing it with lemon, citrus squirting and leaking onto the fish. He watches her take a thoughtful bite.
Without her mouth full, she says, “We have the hardest time learning the oldest lessons.”
It takes an absurd amount of energy to withdraw from the sight of her lips jutting up and down. He retrieves the lemon, sinks his teeth into the pulp, and sucks on the remaining juice. Aware of her eyes on him, he drains the orb and then tosses it onto the blanket. “Again, how would you know what it’s like to lose pleasure if you’re too skittish to experience it?”
She blinks, swallows her portion, and sets down the rest. “Again, how can you appreciate pleasure if you’re too spooked to experience pain?”
Leftover acid collects on his tongue. “What makes you think I’m afraid to experience pain?”
“Oh, please. Because envy itself is a component of pain, and blind pleasure is the coping mechanism. You make sure you always have, have, have. You use the senses, and the compliments of your lovers—and don’t get me started on your own witticisms, and flirtations, and smirks—as a way to dodge the hard stuff. That’s you, desperate for pleasure and validation.
“You compare yourself to others. That’s your purpose. That’s your default. That’s who you were born as. I’m guessing for you it would suck to have less than someone else, to feel less fortunate, to acknowledge the low-hanging fruits of your life, if it pales next to someone else’s good luck. That would be painful.”
“Well, well,” Envy jeers. “You’re all talk tonight. Do you think you have me pegged? What if I told you this isn’t a new idea for me?”
“Sure, you might know this. You might even fess up to it. But are you going to face it?”
“Are you? Are you going to face all this self-awareness? Or are you just going to sit there and eat all my food?”
“Some host you are.”
“I am a superb host. I don’t care what you say.”
Sorrow snorts, then immediately sobers. Plucking her skirt, she mumbles, “Um, by the way, thank you. For not letting me drown.”
Envy stares at her, thunderstruck. “I…really wish I’d gotten that on video.”
When another snigger tumbles out of the goddess, he considers that as encouragement. Might as well take advantage of the thaw. “I refuse to believe you’re immune. Come now, I’m bored and need distraction from my wound. Tell Illustrious Envy, and he promises there will be no bonding.”
“Tell you what?”
“Your pleasure, of course.” Envy holds her gaze. “What’s your pleasure?”
She hesitates. Perhaps this goddess is thinking what he’s thinking: Are they actually having a civilized discussion? It’s too late to turn back. The suggestion has tripped out of him, and now that they’ve started talking, he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut.
She fidgets, the purple lacquer of her fingernails starting to peel. Once that round of fumbling comes to an end, she admits, “I don’t know what I like.”
“That’s preposterous!” Envy wants to laugh in disbelief, but he’s not in the mood to get smacked. “Very well, I never object to going first.”
“You can’t say clothes or fucking.”
“Fine. You can’t say black taffeta or witchcraft. That’s—”
“Getting. Really. Old.”
“I disagree. As to my fancies.” Envy clears his throat. “I like long walks on the beach.”
“For crying out loud.” Sorrow ducks her head sideways. “Nice try.”
Yes, it was. And
it worked, because there’s that cusp of a smile.
She conceals the grin, stashing it away like a secret. Envy is stunned that he’s come remotely this close to witnessing it. Stunned and gratified. It’s a silly achievement, even sillier that he considers it an achievement at all.
And yet he wants to try again, and again, and potentially again. And so he does. He prompts her to go first instead, but she wrinkles her nose, that strip dancing across the bridge. He wants to see her skin crinkle there, wants to rip that adhesive from her face, so that she can’t hide a single inch of her countenance.
At this rate, he’ll get nowhere. But who is he, if not a mastermind at persuasion? Physically, he’d made an effort with her once before. Be that as it may, it’s an utterly different experience to make an effort with her mentally, intellectually, personally. He has an itch, which he plans to scratch.
If she has trouble identifying her pleasures, he’ll push her out of that comfort zone. Measuring his words, he persuades Sorrow to consult her memories, the tastes that she’s never forgotten, the ones that she returns to whenever she’s in a certain mood, the ones that ignite or soothe her pallet without fail. And before they know it, a pair of tumblers fill their hands, a rich liquid sloshing from within. The essence of berries wafts into his nostrils.
“Currant nectar?” he balks.
“Currant nectar,” she confirms.
Essentially, juice. This is a substance that gives her utmost pleasure? But it’s so common place, so ordinary. Still, any possible reaction escapes him, because Sorrow’s irises do something weird, freakish, and spectacular: They light the hell up.
Those rings of color—the pigment of tears—brightens. It saturates as she tips back the vessel and chugs. Licking those chapped lips, a deep and resonant sound curls from her throat, as if she’s guzzling a flute of champagne.
For a fraction of a second, his mind detours along with his prick. Then he pulls himself together as she explains that it’s a comfort drink. Or comfort food, as humans call it.
Envy knows the term. He just never associated it with her tongue.
That rosy, wet tongue.
To distract himself, he listens as she describes the sweet quality of the drink and the refreshing sharpness of its aftertaste. She truly favors this unremarkable brew over delicacies. Belatedly, he realizes why. It’s a refreshment that cleanses, whereas he has never indulged in it, due to its unappetizing simplicity.
“But that’s what I like about it,” Sorrow confides. “It’s like a fleece blanket.” When Envy’s confusion tweaks across his face, she motions to his tumbler. “For Fates sake, just try it.”
When he does, the effect is striking. The nectar is a luscious balance between sweet and earthy. He takes another swig, then another, thoroughly draining the tumbler.
“That wasn’t vile,” he concedes.
She gives him a nod of approval. “How’s that for pleasure?”
Envy sets down the empty drink and leans forward, balancing his forearms on his thighs. “What else?”
They experiment. Sorrow enchants a barrage of mortal comfort food, such as stews, pies, and casseroles, followed by nut butters, meat dishes, and vegetables. He joins her as she samples everything mindfully. In between fragments of quiet feasting, they rate the pleasure-factors of each option.
Sorrow has decided that her signatures are peanut butter, meatballs, and mashed potatoes. Her pride about it is…cute.
In spite of her list, she declares the currant nectar her favorite.
Fleece blankets. Berried juice. Now they’re getting somewhere.
Envy studies her tranquil profile. He can’t decide if it makes him uncomfortable or if this feeling is akin to her precious drink. Something he just might be able to take solace in.
Sorrow catches him studying her. When he doesn’t look away, she averts her gaze and rubs her bicep as if there’s a chill. “What I wouldn’t give for a walk right now.”
“Would that please you?” he teases, to which she gives him a snide look.
“Fine, you’ve made your point,” she says. “I, the Goddess of Sorrow, take pleasure in some things. I’m not a zombie. Happy?”
“Only if you are.”
“Since when do you care?”
“It’s been a long journey. Let’s agree that I’m not myself these days. Frankly, neither are you, particularly in that get-up.”
Sorrow mumbles to herself, her cantankerous attitude failing to ruin this eventide. Is it his imagination, or is he developing a fondness for her grumpy moods?
Is there anyone in this realm capable of breaking down that wall? Anyone who would be her exception? Who would always succeed in disarming her?
If he doesn’t speak, this night will end. They’ll revert back to mutual discord.
She’d like to go for a walk. And well, he could do with a bout of movement, so long as he’s vigilant about his injuries.
A stroll would be romantic with a lover. But with this archeress, it’s only practical.
Right. It’s settled.
He dares to pinch her pajama sleeve. “I know a place.”
9
Envy
At his suggestion, another marvel occurs. Sorrow gives a start, her eyes betraying a queer sort of response, those orbs widening with intrigue.
Truthfully, he hadn’t expected that. He’d anticipated a big fat “nope.” Rejection is her forte. Being on the receiving end of a brush-off is not a common occurrence for him, but after their lusty affair, and after this conversation, he’s less certain about its effect.
Hers is a momentary pause of consideration. In the interim, he finds himself doing something to which he’s also unaccustomed. He holds his breath. He holds his breath for someone who has never taken it from him before.
Talk about a night of surprises. A few months ago, he wouldn’t have given this scene a second thought. Tonight, it has a gravity that makes no sense.
But his ribs hurt too much for him to analyze. Plus, he’s got reserves of pride to rely on, in addition to a reservoir of ready expressions to fall back on, should she refuse him.
She doesn’t. But neither does she jump to her feet. Rather, her face slumps as if he’s giving her no choice, as if he’s nagging her. “Sure,” she says. “Whatever.”
“Well, well, well,” he congratulates himself. “Did I just provide you with an enticement? Excellent.”
“Envy, I’m tired. Are we going to this ‘place you know’ or not?”
“Liar. You haven’t been tired since I joined you.”
“You’re something else, you know that?”
“Originality was the plan. But that’s a rhetorical question, is it not?”
He might be losing his grip on reality, but he’s not that colossal of a fool. Having been trained in the art of covetousness, he knows the signs of feigned indifference when he hears, sees, smells, tastes, and feels it. Many humans conceal their egos behind masked dismissal.
It’s no different with her. Or isn’t it?
Only she would get Envy to second guess his aptitude.
Like a sloth—basically, like Sorrow—she slides her leg out of the lagoon, the lazy drag of which tosses enough water onto the stones to drown a baby seal. How she manages to move lethargically yet create a tidal wave is beyond him.
Together, they rise. There’s an awkward pause, then he swings his arm ahead, and they stroll the footpath back to the cavern. Crossing through, he leads her deep into the abyss, bypassing shimming tunnels and passages that illuminate the space.
They resume their talk. They speak about their homes in the Astral Sea, and the places they have lived within the mortal realm, the worst and best of locations. They compare stories about humans they’ve targeted. They talk about the power trip and the guilt of it all.
When that becomes too much, they return to the subject of pleasure versus pain. Mostly pleasure. It becomes increasingly effortless for Sorrow to brainstorm, expanding from currant nectar and com
fort food to steam wafting from a cup, the tinfoil that conceals mortal chocolate bars, the glow of a human nightlight, and the nutty whiff of bread just out of the oven.
Envy lists his own pleasures. The spice of saffron, the texture of heavy cream, the sight of water splintering against the breakers, and the motorized purr of cats.
Ah, actually he’s not done. There’s also sound of a cork popping from a bottle, the froth of bubble baths, an indulgent serpentine stretch in the morning, the snugness of a well-fitting suit, the smoothness of suede, and the briny spray of sea-foam against his cheek.
And yes, sex. Lots of it.
To that, Sorrow rolls her eyes, though it’s congenial rather than mocking. “The stars when they’re not shining.”
“The translucence of glass,” Envy intones.
“The glaze of ice,” she shares.
He cocks his head. “Why did you choose ice arrows?”
“Why did you opt for glass?” she volleys.
“To see my reflection.”
“Not to see the truth?”
“You accused me of fearing the truth.”
“But our choice of archery elements doesn’t lie.”
“Fine. I like transparency.” He tosses her a swanky grin. “Better yet, I envy it. What about you, smarty pants?”
“Ice is the closest I’ll get to temperature. Plus, it numbs you from feeling things that are too harsh, that you might not be able to take. It sterilizes those feelings. It protects you.”
“And here you said pain is essential.”
“It is. But it’s also essential to survive pain.”
“Are you referring to humans or yourself?”
“Either applies,” she says as they step through a puddle. “Do you like them? Humans?”
What he likes are the strands of purple that swat her cheekbones, but he’d rather expire than admit it. And she’d rather expire than receive praise.
“I wouldn’t be a member of this clan if I didn’t,” Envy says. “I wouldn’t have sacrificed my place. I’ll have you know that forsaking popularity amongst our people is a great sacrifice in favor of rebellion. But then again, it’s worth the risk. If we win this thing, monuments will be erected in our name, and literary geniuses will pen retellings.”
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