For centuries, he hadn’t been able to stand her. Recently, he’d just wanted to bed her.
Now? Now he’s finally knowing Sorrow in pieces, liking her in pieces.
While dancing with him, she gazes at his mouth. After a moment’s thought, her almost-grin falters. “I don’t know how to feel like this.”
The confession brings Envy up short, because he understands. A steady drip of apprehension slips through the cracks, filling his mind. He’s not doing any better than she at identifying what they are now, who they’re becoming.
All he can do is strap her in a hug. Just a hug.
“But you know how to feel this,” he whispers as their arms entwine.
15
Sorrow
Sorrow has seen a million hugs, between a million mortals. But she hasn’t been on the receiving end of one. To her befuddlement, Envy is right. Despite her lack of personal experience, she knows how to feel a hug. She knows what to do with it.
Nuzzling into his hair, she closes her eyes and draws his jasmine-and-myrrh fragrance into her lungs. Her chest vents with his, their inhalations and exhalations in sync. He has big arms, which makes for a big hug, containing her like a talisman, like something sacred, durable enough to withstand the ages.
What an infinite moment. She can’t put it any other way.
Envy’s face burrows into her hair. Like a fleece blanket, or a swig of currant nectar, the hug loosens the knots in her shoulders.
The violet sky evaporates with morning. Nearby, a sheet of water rolls through the lagoon.
When their arms unwind, it’s all Sorrow can do to face Envy. Her gaze wanders as much as his own, both of them shuffling.
Who makes the next move?
It’s a tie, because their fingers clamp together at the same instant. Or it could be a pact, some unspoken agreement to put animosities to rest, once and for all.
Without a word or a glance, they mosey into the cavern, where they continue the trek to her chamber, where the lamps pour golden light across the moss. Envy crawls into the bed and takes her with him, then continues introducing her to the most vivid forms of pleasure.
He massages every inch of her anatomy, until she melts into the mattress. He feeds her currants, then licks the juice from her lips. He enchants a blindfold, so that she can’t anticipate which erotic path his mouth takes across her flesh. By the end of that arousing journey, his head sinks into the nexus of her limbs, and he sucks on her wetness to the point of unconsciousness, her moans cataclysmic.
At last, he folds her in his arms. Days, and weeks, and months, and years, and decades, and centuries collect into a single mental and physical mass. The embrace must have magic, because it saps her energy. Fleece blankets whisper across her knees and elbows, proceeded by another hug from behind as the vainest god in the universe aligns his torso with her spine, their sodden clothes forgotten.
Her lips quirk. Blackness floods her mind before her smile can lift fully.
Yet it seems like seconds when her eyes drag open. The motion takes effort, her lashes cemented together. When Sorrow blinks awake, bleary and mussed, the deepening blue of afternoon leaks into the hollow. They’ve been asleep for nearly the whole day?
Sorrow twists, intending to nag Envy. But she stops. He rests with half of his visage mashed into the pillow and puffs through a partially open mouth. He’s wrinkled and uncombed, and ugh, it would be stellar to get this on camera. If only those contraptions worked on deities, she would produce one.
The cloth around his injury rises and falls with his breaths. By tonight, he’ll be able to remove the dressing.
Her mouth compresses as a buttery emotion flows through her. That, and pride. He’d risked her seeing him like this, when he wouldn’t be caught dead letting anyone else.
Is he a light sleeper? Carefully, she tests that possibly and brushes a swatch of black hair from his chin.
Nothing. He barely stirs, the blanket shifting over him. For a while, she watches Envy until her fingers grow restless. Either she leaves now, or she’ll get naughty and fondle something she shouldn’t.
Sorrow groans, hauling herself from the bed. Straightening her robe, she pads down to the cavern’s threshold. The cliffs buffet a subtle breeze. Grown dragonflies zoom overhead in streaks of silver.
Settling at the lagoon’s rim, she dips her feet into the placid water and takes a moment to replay last night. The things he’d done to her. The things she’d allowed him to do. The words they’d spoken.
The places they’d drifted to afterward. The secret tunnel leading from the enclave, which he hadn’t shared with anyone else.
The dance. The hug.
Gripping the lagoon’s ledge, she twists her mouth into her shoulder, muffling another tilt of her lips.
You’re smiling.
That’s what he’d recently said to her. And yes, she is. Raising her head, she turns to the sky and lets the grin wreathe from one end of her face to the other. She goes crazy and flashes her teeth.
After that, she wiggles out of the robe and dunks herself into the lagoon. This induces a lazy splash, the surface quivering. The firmament rotates as Sorrow unravels and floats on her back, arms and legs akimbo.
Has she ever felt so brave? So badass? So happy?
Another heavier splash alerts her to his presence.
The wave that accompanies his arrival causes Sorrow to bob. While her pulse accelerates, she keeps her gaze on the canopy. She’s no longer grinning, but neither does she frown. Rather, her features are lax and rested.
A pair of wide palms materialize under her. One hand braces the slot between her shoulder blades, the other her lower back. Silent and getting his eyeful, Envy balances Sorrow, then begins to sway her.
Overhead, the astral cathedral becomes a sphere as he spins her slowly, the afternoon stars slanting. The motion transforms this view, distorting it, changing it, making it new.
Sorrow’s smile breaks through again. With it, she laughs. She feels him grinning, amused by her chuckles as they turn, and turn, and turn.
They stop abruptly, gasping as though they’d been wheeling faster than in reality. Sorrow’s chest pumps. She can’t take it anymore.
Envy swings her upright just as she straightens to her feet. Her arms find his shoulders, and his arms find her waist. Her gaze makes it as far as his mouth while the angle of his shadow indicates he’s doing the same thing, staring at her lips. They’re dripping, heaving in damp air.
He’s as naked as she is, though the surface conceals everything below the ramps of his hipbones. Above that, he has removed the dressing, the bruised flesh having dissolved and his ribs contracting normally.
Sorrow trembles. As her breasts surge into his chest, in a gloriously moistened slide, Envy hisses.
If she meets those eyes, she’ll lose her nerve.
They pause, their faces tipped inches apart. Small, smoldering pants rush from their mouths, which part, so fucking close. Her eyelids fringe, a bead of perspiration leaking down her cheek. Under the depths, he hardens against the spot that’s contracting inside her.
Her heart beats like a drum. Or is it his heart?
They’ve never done this. They’ve never done this one thing.
To hell with it. To hell with all of it.
She cranes her head and brushes her mouth with his.
Envy’s torso hitches, unleashing a strangled noise. He stalls, dangling off a precipice while she waits, choking when he reciprocates with a caress of his own mouth. And then they’re teasing each other, their mouths grazing languidly.
Envy’s lips are plush and full, and what a rush to skate her flesh against his, tracing the bends and crooks. What an absolute high to feel his nails dig into her, while they withhold from one another.
Their heads bank to the opposite sides. This time, Envy’s tongue comes out to flick at her teeth. A mewl curls from her throat. A frisson of pleasure racks up her thighs, slamming into the place where she aches for him.
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This is the longest calm-before-the-storm that she’s ever known. This must also qualify as the most frustrating, drawn-out incident in history.
His tongue makes another pass, this one along the crease of her mouth. Curse him, the contact reaches her womb. On a sigh, oxygen pours out of her.
She licks him back, swiping the bow of his upper lip. Envy seethes, his palm scaling to the back of Sorrow’s skull, snarling through her roots and cupping her head. He’s got her ready. And as she grips his nape, she’s got him primed.
They wait, and wait, and wait.
And they stop waiting.
With a single lurch, they fling themselves into the kiss. Envy groans, his mouth swooping down and clamping with hers. Sorrow cries into him, their lips spitting and clasping.
Their bodies go nuts, arms clinging, fingers scraping. Their mouths clutch and roll.
His tongue pries her apart and flexes into her mouth. Sorrow grapples with his back, beseeching for more. A prolonged moan slips out as their tongues meet and lap together.
It tickles. It torments.
Repeatedly, they switch direction, tasting each other from different angles. His mouth spreads her. Her mouth rides his. Their tongues fuse, licking into one another.
Sorrow’s nostrils flare. Envy growls, kissing the shit out of her.
Her hands fall, clinging to his waist. Humming, he grasps her face and arches those lips, plunges in and out, matching another rhythm they’ve achieved, though not as real, never this real.
Breaking away, he plants harsh kisses across the upper bow of her mouth. Finally, she catches a glimpse of his ruined lips. The sight is too much, just too much, so she snatches him once more. He smirks into the kiss, hungry and wanting.
Where’s that fucking tongue?
Sorrow catches it, driving him to maddening noises. Her fingers rock up his abs and ascend to his jaw, securing him in place. His tongue writhing with hers, Envy’s touch descends to her bare ass, scooping her there and smashing her against him. It’s mayhem, a beautiful wreckage of lips and tongues and moans.
He plows in again, and she yields again, and they start again.
And now she knows what passion feels like.
16
Envy
And so does he.
And it dawns on him that he hasn’t felt this sort of passion before. Not for her.
Or at least, not for a very, very long time…
17
Envy
There’s a star that winks in the sky. The celestial woos the constellations, vying for attention, its glow illuminating the bottomless swell of violet. This gesture dazzles the planets, attracts the moons, and amuses the stars. The pompous little thing should humble itself in the presence of superior lights, yet the galaxy excuses it, because this star is too stunning to deny.
The star is also competitive. It attempts to outshine its neighbors and succeeds with finesse, wearing its radiance to its best advantage.
It’s a pleasure to receive such a wink.
Beneath the stellar canopy, the five members of the Fate Court and an assembly of Guides quirk their lips. Clustered around the stargazer that perches atop Fortune’s Crest, these observant rulers and mentors agree. The star is boastful and beautiful, a veritable source of jealousy and vanity.
Hence, it bears the marks of a pride god.
“He is ready,” the Guide of Envy predicts.
With the Court’s blessing, the female mentor extends a cupped palm and summons the star, which dives from the firmament and lands with a flourish into her hand.
***
Sorrow
And there’s a star that drowns in the sky.
Not far off, tucked beneath a luminous moon, this celestial is lonely. It hovers by itself, a misfit taking the brunt of its neighbors’ grievances—the blinding glare of anguished planets, and the dullness of moons in mourning, and the dejection of black holes, and the weeping of meteors with no place to land.
This star wants to help, wants to console the universe. It tries, it really does. In fact, it attempts to flick tiny embers of hope to the celestials, but the offerings fizzle out before they reach their destinations.
It’s too much. There’s just too many of them.
This star balances the darkness like a weight, fighting to hold itself up. It releases droplets of translucent light, which leak and drizzle into the galaxy.
Maybe one day it will know how to swim in the sky. Until then, this glimmering asterisk cries while none of its neighbors are watching.
But someone is watching.
Far below, the Guide of Sorrow gazes at the dot overhead. The lone mentor gulps, because he understands. And so, rather than wait for the Court to arrive and give permission—they will surely approve later, once they’ve ceased fawning over that other showy star—the Guide scoops his palms into a cradle, and the star sinks, slumping wearily into the mentor’s hands.
Stroking the newly birthed deity, the Guide whispers, “Shh. Everything will be all right.”
***
Envy
He grins at himself in the mirror, blows himself a youthful kiss, and purrs, “Good morning, handsome.”
***
Sorrow
She flops onto her little stomach, and mashes her small face into a pillow, and groans until she falls back asleep.
***
Envy
When it’s time to craft his arrows, he chooses glass. It wields his reflection, doting on him, as anyone should.
***
Sorrow
She chooses ice. It’s a numbing element, a protective barrier against pain, so that when her time comes to serve the mortal realm, each pierce of her weapon will soothe an ache—or cause one, depending on what’s needed.
By then, she will know the difference.
***
Envy
Despite his scant years, he’s the only pupil whose feet reach the ground from his chair. Even if his voice hasn’t broken yet, and he has to crane his head to stare at the monarchs, at least his height is an achievement.
In a misted enclave of waterfalls, Envy sits with four other children while the Fate Court parades around them. The sovereigns proclaim that he’s been assigned to the most elite and promising class of archers in existence.
Excellent. Envy likes the sound of this. The best of the best. The top of the archer chain, etcetera, etcetera. He won’t have to compare himself to anyone, except to his classmates.
There’s Wonder, who’s a buxom Venus. Plush, perky, and pretty. She wears wildflowers in her blonde hair. She has a wandering gaze, her attention drifting to the clouds instead of Envy’s face.
Too bad. He’ll have to rectify that later.
There’s Anger, with his cliffside cheekbones, olive skin, and graphite eyes. Short fuse, for sure. With his nostrils flaring like a gale, Anger’s a thrashing, raging sort of handsome. Though his wool tunic leaves something to be desired, which inspires Envy to smooth over his silken shirt. If that turbulent archer gets to claim the coveted title of class leader, at least Envy can dress better.
Love is a raven wearing a mischievous white dress encrusted with appliqués at the bodice. She represents the most complex of emotions, and because of that, she’s the first love goddess to be successfully created by the Fates in history.
And then there’s the banshee seated to Envy’s right. The one called Sorrow.
He sniffs at her ensemble. A shredded skirt that has seen better days, a vest dyed in a shade of nightmare-black, and boots with an assortment of metal buckles that she must have stolen from a guillotine.
This goddess is actually considered one of the elite? Are their rulers blind?
Look at her! She’s no more celestial than a witch!
Oval face pulled down like a large teardrop, half-moon eyes that reflect terseness more than tragedy, and a wry twist of her chapped mouth. The creepy goddess has painted her fingernails and lips to match her unkempt hair. It boggles Envy to thi
nk of how many ripe grapes were sacrificed in the name of that color. Some poor vineyard keeper is going hungry tonight.
Fates. Does sarcasm come with that surly face?
As if she’s heard the unspoken question, Sorrow swings her gaze toward Envy. Their eyes meet. She pierces him with a stare that pulls no punches, plays no games, and offers zero compliments.
And he loses his train of thought.
***
Sorrow
What is he looking at?
The stupid archer gawks like he’s caught her brewing an indistinguishable potion or speaking a language he doesn’t understand. In fact, it takes him a while to get over himself.
Suddenly, he puffs out his chest like a peacock.
He’s expecting what? For her to blush? To giggle? At him?
Ewwwww. She doesn’t blush or giggle. That’s disgusting.
And he’s a snob. Despite the Court’s introductions, they haven’t said a word to each other, yet already she can tell this much about the prig called Envy, with his silly clothes and shiny hair. He probably brushes that mane as though it’s a pet, and fancies himself a riot, and smooches his reflection.
Unimpressed, Sorrow slits her eyes. It takes effort to give him attention, and he must know as much, because her reaction accomplishes the opposite of what she’d intended. Basically, it resurrects his leer. Lapping up her expression like a sweet, he flashes her a smarmy, toothy grin.
Then he winks at her.
***
Envy
After the indoctrination, their class moseys to the summit of a blooming purple cliff overlooking the sea, where the road leads to their homes. Love invites them to race down the slope, an offer that gets snubbed. Anger twists his mouth in distaste and struts off. Sorrow leaves, tugging Wonder with her.
Because Envy’s too good for that hex of a female, he turns his sights on a disappointed Love. She’s comely and famous, two qualities that tickle him pink. Since no god or goddess their age has failed to simper in his presence, he makes a sly comment to the archeress, then puckers up for a kiss.
Love rewards Envy by tripping him down the hill. As he rolls to a stop at the bluffs’ base, Envy contemplates pouting. Except he has company, having landed at the feet of the last desirable female in the Peaks.
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