Sorrow snickers at the story, but mostly at his wry tone. He speaks with enthusiasm, with the same kind of geeky zeal as when Wonder and Malice debate about research, or when Andrew quotes fictional stories, or when Love describes the nature of relationships, or when Anger talks about honor and allegiance, or when Merry waxes poetic about music.
Whenever that happens, Sorrow promptly changes the subject or blurts something corrosive. It spares her the task of contributing to the conversation, because she’d only come up empty-handed. And it’s better than sitting there, twiddling her thumbs or nibbling on her useless, quiet mouth.
The enclave niches exhale mist, which spritzes their clothing. It’s refreshing. Sorrow collects her damp hair and knots it haphazardly at the nape of her neck, so that she can feel the spray against her throat.
For a goddess, she has fine, limp hair. It’s not the suffocating thicket of Love’s black tresses; nor is it the bouncy, short, pink waves of Merry’s hair; and it’s definitely not Wonder’s outpouring of blonde. That makes Sorrow’s hair a stubborn candidate for styling, so she usually lets the whole thing sag, or she snarls it out of the way.
A lane of rocks tracks over a running tributary. As they walk across, Envy peers over his shoulder, just in time to witness sprigs of purple escaping from her lazy bun and bouncing in tune with her pace. Who knows why, but this incites an appreciative, masculine smirk.
They gravitate through a slender trail flanked by downpours and precipitation, illuminated from above by a violet spool of light. According to the archer who hasn’t released her hand, there are riches to be found here. Mineral rocks shaped like coral reefs, whirlpools that spin, eels and starfish that glitter like stained-glass, shrubs that release perfume onto one’s flesh, and edible pebbles that taste like toffee. Though to score the latter, one has to dive deeply.
The Peaks are chock-full of marvels. The blooming cliffs, the numerous planets and moons. And the Archives, the great library of their people. It’s Wonder and Malice’s favorite spot in the universe.
But now it’s a ruin. That her friends have lost their happy place impales Sorrow with sympathy.
Suddenly, the possibility that Envy might lose his own happy place, this place, pricks her chest. However, she refuses to classify the sensation, to give it a name, to make it real.
Neither will she identify the swoop in her navel as they cross farther into the unknown. The chime of excitement as she thinks, Where is he taking me?
Soon enough, she finds out. The path widens, and the falls recede into a cove. Surrounded by a ring of water, a tiny island of grass bloats from the center. At its core, a frond tree sprouts, its leaves covered in a shimmering glaze.
Sorrow and Envy pause at the threshold shrouded in fern tufts. More ethereal motes drift in the air. One of them dances past her chin and lands on her shoulder.
There’s no other movement, nor sound. Not even the wheeze of crickets.
Radiance from above draws Sorrow’s gaze. Glancing upward, she espies the umbrella of branches, where mobiles of silver glass dangle in funnel arrangements. The effect is reminiscent of dozens of brilliant chandeliers.
But they’re not chandeliers. They’re dragonflies.
Fates, they’re infant dragonflies hovering in a delicate sequence, their wings emitting a prismatic glow. Although these creatures are no surprise, this atmosphere is, because it’s sacred to the winged beings.
She opens her mouth, but Envy’s index finger presses against it. “Wait,” he whispers. “They’re waking up.”
He cups her shoulder, urging her to squat behind a hedge. For some reason, she wants to laugh as much as she wants to gape. This feels like an escapade meant for children, not for them.
She doesn’t care. She’s glad that he prevented her mouth from opening, because she would have said the wrong thing, made a declaration that doesn’t live up to this scene. She would’ve filled the space with noise and disturbed the setting.
“Remember our first lessons?” Envy asks in a hushed voice. “The ones about the creatures of this land? Remember the stories?”
Sorrow nods. “About the coves where dragonflies are born.”
“The nature lectures were my favorite, because nature doesn’t justify itself, because it doesn’t have to. I fancied how there was something mightier than all of us, mightier than the stars, enigmatic and uncontrollable. The ultimate divinity.”
“It scared the crap out of Anger.”
“But it blew me away,” Envy confides. “I relished learning the history of nature, of anything that couldn’t be controlled by the celestials.”
While whispering, he studies the winged chandeliers. And she watches him. She watches the shadows slice across his jaw. For once, there’s nothing lecherous about his demeanor, nothing teasing or flamboyant.
It’s just him, taking pleasure in nature. It’s him, sharing this pleasure with her.
It doesn’t have a big picture meaning, and it doesn’t have a grand function, and it doesn’t have a moral. It’s just glee for its own sake.
Somehow, she knows this. Or maybe she surmises it because of all the things he has said tonight.
Deities are born from the stars. Dragonflies are born from the water.
With a single glint of light, they awaken and spread their wings. Fully grown dragonflies are the size of mountable creatures, but these little guys haven’t reached that capacity yet. According to the tales, they live near sacred waters, nesting in the trees after birth. But no deity had ever found or seen such a spectacle. Thus, her people have settled for viewing these creatures everywhere else, and perhaps that’s been enough.
If it had stayed enough for Sorrow, she would have missed out.
Those small wings begin to flutter. One by one, the infants break away and skip through the air. They dash about, chasing the motes.
It’s a dance. It’s beautiful.
No, it’s magical, a term that has grown bland to Sorrow, so commonplace that its resonance has been diluted. When was the last time she saw something, felt something, that was truly enchanting? Anything that she hadn’t developed an immunity to? Anything that reminded her that magic is breathtaking?
An inscrutable sensation scrapes her throat. “I had no idea,” she exhales. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“I was a stripling when I first came upon this cove. I got lost in the enclave and ended up here. It reminded me that one can know everything about one’s world, yet not know everything. There’s often more to discover and a new way to look at things.” Envy chuckles under his breath. “It sounds trite, I’m fully aware.”
“Don’t you mind sounding trite in front of me?”
“Not tonight.”
Is that because he feels comfortable being transparent in her company? Or is she just that inconsequential?
Envy curates the universe’s impression of him. Everyone but her.
Is that because she matters so little? Does that disturb her?
The dragonflies continue to drip from their chandelier hives and skitter around the cove. Some of them skate the water’s surface, scattering translucent beads.
Sorrow punts her toe against the grass. “It doesn’t sound trite. It sounds like you’re a misfit, like the rest of us.”
“A fashionable misfit,” Envy improvises, placing a pinky against his plush, infuriating mouth. “Shh. It will be our secret.”
“It’s only been several hours. Have we graduated to sharing secrets?”
He tilts his head, squinting with mirth. “Dear me, was that a quip? Is the Goddess of Sorrow teasing?”
She shoves his shoulder. They twist, reclining across from each other, their backs against the rocks. Speechless, they admire the scene, piebald in a swirl of darkness and lightness.
Envy once chastised Love for taking residence in the trees while she served the mortal realm. Tonight, Sorrow speculates if his judgment had been a front, an inflated role he’d been playing, the picture of a haught
y god.
Case in point, the closer their classmates grow, the less he remarks on Love’s fetish for climbing trees. In fact, he commends it these days, just like he endorses Wonder’s habit of hanging upside down from branches—her classic meditation pose.
The dragonflies practice the art of flight, fluttering and rotating like discs. As they exercise their wings, there’s an erratic synchronization to it that Sorrow admires. But when they fall in sync, separating into batches and then spiraling, the whole place ignites.
Her profile feels the caress of someone’s gaze. Sorrow peeks behind her hair and finds Envy maintaining an indolent sprawl.
“What?” she says, defensive.
“You’re smiling,” he says, serious.
So serious, when she’d have expected him to gloat and praise himself for diverting her. To the contrary, he seems perplexed, like he’s never seen a smile before and doesn’t know how to interpret it.
She certainly doesn’t. She doesn’t know what to do with her grin, invisible to her eyes yet balanced precariously on her face, like a piece that has come loose. By the same measure, she can’t decide what to do with his frown, because he frowns about as often as she smiles.
Sorrow reassembles the muscles and bones in her countenance, rearranging the hollows and slopes into a safer expression—something sardonic, or dignified, or both.
He’s still watching her.
She whacks her thigh. “Would you stop doing that?”
His mouth twitches. “I can’t help it. Your face is doing such peculiar things, lifting in places, crinkling in others. I’ve never seen it change structure like this. Tell me, is the smile heavy? Or was it weightless until I pointed it out?”
“You are the most pompous critter in the galaxy.”
“That may have to do with my being—what’s it called? A deity? A pride god?”
“Just watch the flying kiddos, not me.”
“As a youth, I’d try and talk with them.” Envy slants his head, his hair slipping off his shoulders. “Not that they understood me.”
“You never know.” She surveys the tykes that zip through the cove. “What would it be like to live as fully as animals do? To live as unbridled as nature does? Do you think we would thrive or collapse?”
“You sound enthralled,” Envy remarks.
“I must be in a sappy mood,” Sorrow jibes.
“You must be. Either that, or it has to do with present, masculine company.”
“Don’t let this night go to your head. That noggin is already full enough, and I doubt anything else can fit in there.”
“Wanna bet?”
Fates forbid. He’s been granted the dark, expansive features of a river, flawless and vast. Destiny spoiled him, which is saying something considering deities thrive on perfection.
Sorrow is hardly ignorant of her own looks. Despite Envy’s harassment over the centuries, she’s aware that she’s pretty. Yet she doesn’t care about that. For her, it’s a trivial fact, not something to celebrate.
He would say that’s a pity, but it’s not. She’d rather be honest than be pretty.
Then again, it’s not that Envy really thinks her unattractive. She’s just not his type, never has been. He prefers conventional beauty, females and males who resemble doves with lustrous tresses and graceful expressions.
That he’d bumped hips with Sorrow is mind-blowing. Still, it’s not as mind-blowing as the events of this singular, unimaginable night.
She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, then hitches her shoulder. “Thanks for this,” she says, the gratitude sloppy on her tongue.
“I’m all ears,” he simpers. “Thanks for what? Dare I say, you’ve experienced a moment of serenity in this cove? Pleasure?”
“Quit while you’re ahead.”
“One more request, and then I vow to hold my tongue, providing you wouldn’t like to do it for me?”
“Dream on.” She shifts in place, suddenly failing to find a comfortable position. “What’s the request? And you had better not say a lap dance.”
“Show me pain.”
Sorrow reels back. Really, there can’t be a more appropriate response.
If she had been drinking something, she’d have spit it out. If she had been eating something, she’d have choked. “What kind of request is that?”
Envy turns away, his eyes landing on a distant point. “You ponder what would it be like to live as fully as nature. Alas,” he mock-sighs. “That means relinquishing control. Thus, what you said about me avoiding pain, the same way you avoid pleasure? Let no one call the God of Envy a coward.”
That’s probably the closest she’ll get to him admitting she was right.
“I showed you a decadent evening,” he says. “Now it’s your turn. Show me pain as only you can.”
“This is crazy,” she insists. “This whole night is crazy, all the things we’ve been doing and saying. We’re in the middle of a war.”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but war hasn’t begun yet. Our people have no clue we’re here, save for a few ambitious archers. For how long? Who knows? But the fight hasn’t begun, and something tells me it won’t in the next couple of days.”
“A year ago, we would have predicted it would take centuries for us to finish negotiating, before even resorting to battle. Look how fast everything is happening.”
“That depends on how long we think this has been brewing under the surface. It took the Court eons to create a Goddess of Love. And then that very goddess turned out to be a renegade who fell for a human, creating a domino effect that changed the course of our people. Why do you think that is?
“Perhaps the stars had this plan in mind. Perhaps this was always our destiny, and perhaps we’ve been preparing without knowing it. Perhaps we’ve been stewing without recognizing it. Otherwise, yes, it would have taken centuries for negotiations to flop. That we’re susceptible to such a rapid change of heart can’t be incidental.”
“Fine, but teaching you about pain isn’t as easy as teaching me pleasure.”
“I’ll do my utmost not to take offense to that,” Envy says dryly.
“It’s not a lesson plan that I can just map out,” Sorrow huffs.
He raises a single obsidian eyebrow.
Who in their right mind would make this sort of request? To ask the Goddess of Sorrow to show them misery, grief, melancholy, sadness? All the ingredients of her craft?
In the aftershock of his statement, pragmatism sets in, seeping through her veins. They could do this, become friends, show each other pleasure and pain without resorting to touching or embracing. Over the course of three days—two-and-a-half, if she counts the events since their arrival—it might supply them with a new kind of strength, a new kind of magic that would benefit this campaign.
It will also take their minds off that infernal legend. One that implies they have a remote chance of developing substantial feelings for each other.
This challenge won’t be about that. It’s practical, an efficient kind of training. In refuting the legend, they’ve been denying their band an advantage. Because Sorrow and Envy refuse to entertain romance, their band has taken tactical precautions by scouting an outpost, in anticipation of a scrimmage.
But if Sorrow and Envy can find an alternative strength, they will at least have more to contribute. If they’re unwilling to sacrifice or test their emotions, this might atone for that decision.
When Sorrow recaps her thoughts to Envy, he nods. Maybe he’d been thinking along the same lines, having considered the big picture, as well as himself. Just like a bona fide deity.
She should start slowly. Unfortunately, they don’t have that kind of time.
He’ll have to free fall, and crash, and break.
Like a waterfall. Like a rapid.
She’ll have to do it with him. This needs to be consensual, the lessons of pleasure and pain.
Around them, dragonflies commune amidst the foliage. One winged soul sneaks up o
n Sorrow and lands on her cropped finger. Settled upon her knuckle, its wings beat, as if in thought. Then without a farewell, it launches into the air and rejoins its allies, blending into that spiral of silver.
This time, she’s aware of the tweaks in her features, the smile that blooms. She turns to Envy, who’d witnessed the exchange, who’s waiting for her answer.
“Deal,” she says.
12
Envy
What is he doing? What is she doing? What are they doing?
They travel in silence from the dragonfly cove, back through the waterfall enclave. Sorrow picks around the hedges, dust motes landing in her unruly bun, blades of hair sticking out like straw. It’s such a mortal style to flout. It’s also inexplicably endearing, though grungy isn’t his forte.
By contrast, Sorrow’s plump, perky tush looks downright edible in those atrocious pants, mainly because he only glimpses a teasing hint of their swell. Damnation. She has the talent for turning subtle into salacious.
On second thought, pleasure is a-calling. Trotting through shrubs of burgundy and magenta, Envy appraises Sorrow while she walks ahead of him. Even as things stand between them, he can still look, because it would be a scandal not to. And—
“Cut that out,” she snaps. “I’m not blind.”
“Neither am I,” he drawls, still admiring.
Cursing him to Fates, she whirls and snatches his chin. “We can start with your introduction to pain right now, buddy. Just say the word.”
Envy guffaws. “Your wish is my command.”
She yanks her digits from him. “I should be so lucky.”
Liquid mist sprays them both. One would think they’ve spent the night sweating together.
Three locations. They have camped in three locations tonight. The lagoon, this enclave, and the dragonfly cove. He could show her more, much more. There are one-hundred playgrounds in which to roam.
Unfortunately, their days are limited. He’ll need to be selective, choose wisely.
In turn, what does she have in store for him? What nature of pain?
Condemnation, these hours have been full of revelations. One in particular.
She knows how to smile.
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