Among Gods and Monsters

by S D Simper

  Flowridia’s fingers went to idly stroke Demitri’s fur. “But—” She cut off her words, realizing she danced dangerously on the line of disrespect.

  She cringed when Casvir said, “Yes?”

  “Nothing.” Flowridia whispered, keeping her eyes to the ground. “You already told me you wish for me to stay in Nox’Kartha. That answers my question enough.”

  “Truthfully, my plans for you,” Casvir said, his voice slow and thoughtful, “are still developing.”

  “I don’t—” Flowridia bit her tongue, fearful to accuse the imperator of falsehood. Instead, she swallowed her words but flinched when Casvir spoke.

  “Please, speak your mind,” he said, sincere as far as she could discern.

  Flowridia looked beyond the stone pillars, eyes caressing the garden life. “I don’t believe that.”

  When at first he said nothing, Flowridia shut her eyes, unsure if she would be struck down where she sat or at least reprimanded.

  His words surprised her, especially in so gentle a package. “It shows, at times, the abuse your mother inflicted upon you.”

  Flowridia’s gaze shot up, her breath hitching slightly as she studied his thoughtful stare.

  Casvir stared, his red eyes studying her every twitch. He sat at the bench across from her, and she didn’t dare to look away. “Though I would reassure you that I mean you no ill will, you are wise to mistrust my words. Your trusting heart has been brutalized. The past is your greatest teacher.”

  The hand hidden in Demitri’s fur clung to his soft coat, the poignant words piercing deep. Flowridia released a steadying breath.

  “I do mean what I said, that my plans for you are still developing, but only because you are meant for greater things than I had anticipated.”

  Flowridia stared forward, curious to know more, but unsure if she were allowed to ask.

  Casvir’s stoicism cracked. He raised a single eyebrow, as if daring her to move. “Speak your mind.”

  “Who was my father?”

  It was then that the sunrise burst through the scattered leaves, casting celestial flame onto the imperator’s face, shadowing his conspiring smile. “Your father’s name was Zanoram, and I met him on the road outside the Solviran Capitol. A prestigious paladin to Sol Kareena, yes, but far from home, weary of the road although he claimed to be travelling to see his family. I told him of a great evil within the Abyssal Swamp preying upon men and young women, and duty bound, he went. Odessa played her predictable part, and in the end, he lay dead, and she carried a child.”

  There was more, Flowridia knew, and she steeled herself to ask. “But who was he? ‘Prestigious paladin’ means nothing. There are many of those.”

  “His full title was Zanoram, Bearer of Light, hailed hero of the Theocracy of Sol Kareena, and the only son of Archbishop Xoran.”

  Flowridia’s head swam, contemplating all the puzzle pieces that had suddenly been forced together. Chosen of Sol Kareena, claimed by the Goddess herself after a childish offering left at the altar, but for reasons deeper than she might have ever imagined.

  “That birthright is yours to claim,” Casvir said, voicing her final thought, “if you ever tire of the title ‘Grand Diplomat.’”

  The Theocracy of Sol Kareena was a monarchy, despite the title. Rights to rule were passed down through lineage, and female Archbishops were well-documented throughout their history. She would be the very first to claim a demon as a patron, instead of Sol Kareena.

  “But I had not foreseen your potential for necromancy.”

  Pulled from her musing, Flowridia met his eye.

  “Nor would I have ever thought you might tame a beast like Ayla Darkleaf. The Endless Night saved your life from the God of Order.”

  Flowridia recalled being cradled in the monster’s embrace, Izthuni himself manifest upon the world, protecting her at Ayla’s behest. It tore down the walls she had hastily constructed, the reminder of tenderness among monstrosity piercing her heart.

  “Should you sign my contract and wish for your throne in the Theocracy, I will consider your terms fulfilled. But I do wonder if there is a destiny for you somewhere else.”

  The thought made her head reel. Flowridia released her breath, casting her stare to the stone ceiling, noting the abstract designs. “I have no idea what you mean by that.”

  “I mean nothing by it. I only mean that you continue to surprise me. I am content to merely watch fate unfold.” Casvir spared a glance for the sun, silent a moment before he added, “My day must begin. But you are free to enjoy all the gifts my palace can offer.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, and she smiled as he left her, listening until his metallic steps disappeared down the stone path.

  What are you thinking?

  Flowridia contemplated Demitri’s question, content to sit upon her stone bench and breathe the morning air. “I am thinking, that if I ever choose to reveal my heritage to the Theocracy royals, it would make for a rather awkward family reunion. I don’t think my grandfather likes me much.”

  She chuckled at her own words, kissing Demitri when he rose to lick her face.

  * * *

  But a shadow followed Flowridia wherever she went.

  She returned to the library and greeted Tazel like a friend. “I’m sorry if I was off-putting yesterday,” she said sheepishly, unwilling to meet his gaze. “It’s a difficult time for me.”

  His smile held the empathy of one who truly understood, full of sorrow and sincerity. “I was also once betrayed by someone I loved, who I was a fool to think loved me.”

  He said nothing more, but there was kindness in his words.

  “I may not understand it,” Flowridia said, her stare resting at his pile of books, unmoved from the day before, “but I want to know. I need to know everything.”

  With Tazel’s assistance, she learned a tale of horror unbound.

  Stoic throughout, she read of a thousand years of slaughter, entire villages gone in a night by The Endless Night. Some were clinical, but most were narrative accounts, written by the survivors of a genocide spanning generations of elves.

  . . . remember fire blazing in the city square. “Stand in the light!” someone cried. “The Endless Night is weak in the light. We need only survive until dawn!”

  From the great shadows cast by the fire, the beast appeared. It stood taller than the buildings, and when it balanced on two legs and bellowed a roar—

  Flowridia remembered the deaths of the Skalmites, thousands in a bloodstained day and night, by the monster who grinned with a visage too horrifying to describe . . . and who had held her tenderly, who had stood between she and the God of Order and Sol Kareena both.

  . . . every inch of land lay covered in debris and carnage, and already the scent of death and stagnant blood began rising—

  . . . caravans were abandoned. I remember the desperate cries of horses—some left to die, and others rearing up as their owners fought to unhitch them from the wagons. I saw The Endless Night lift one like a doll and ram it into the ground.

  Then, the monster flinched. From the torches’ light, I saw a strange, arachnid beast, some sort of demon crying out in the forbidden, demonic tongue. She spoke wicked words, yet she was our savior that night, luring the monster away as we abandoned our wagons and ran—

  She read of the disappearances of children in the night, the fates of those who came to find Ayla Darkleaf.

  . . . cannot say it all, lest my hand falter and I stain this account with tears. But Karnilla, my sweet sister, died a slow and agonizing death, taken apart piece by piece while the woman was certain to name every action, every severed part she held up with her cursed instruments. At first I fought, and then I sobbed, my heart shattered by her screams as she cried my name.

  When her cries finally stilled, I nearly choked for relief—but then I saw it was a farce, for the monster had merely removed her throat, yet still she lived—

  . . . she laughed all the while, chatting pleasantl
y of the weather and her home as she stitched the man together again, his face replaced with another’s—

  Thorough and gleeful, Casvir had said. Thorough and gleeful in all she did.

  And she read of later years, of corrupt and wicked men who sought Ayla for political gain, to wield her as a weapon.

  . . . door was locked—not sure how she got in. Asked me what I was doing, asked if I was happy here, apologized for Master’s behavior, said she didn’t approve. She touched me on my neck and whispered that I was ‘devastatingly beautiful.’ Told her I had to be somewhere or be beaten more and ran—

  . . . responsible for the slaughter of Baron Greatwhite and his family, leading the way for Lord Redwood to be elected Executor of the Highland Elves—

  . . . overheard she and my husband in his bedroom. Mostly her. She’s not quiet. I left that night to see my mother.

  Later found out she slaughtered the entire household—Executor Wellrock and all—not a day later. It saved my life.

  Perhaps she might’ve risen to her own power, save for her death by Fireborn hands. Tazel offered her a personal account, written by Yeshua Fireborn himself.

  . . . and so it fell to The Coming Dawn to lure Ayla from her home in the mountains of Kaas—some old cohort of Mereen’s who steps into shadows with the skill of The Endless Night herself. We were not told her name, only that she was of some importance in Sha’Demoni. I questioned the intelligence of siding with demons; Mereen said compromises must be made for the greater good. Raziel, my brother, agreed, and so the plan was set, despite my misgivings.

  The demon, to her credit, delivered on her promise. I know not what she said or did, but in a cave far beneath the Mountains of Kaas, she lured the monster at dawn—

  . . . in the great altercation, there came a moment whereupon the world faded, and it was she and I. She bared her fangs and leapt for my throat, but instinct decreed I would live that day—I smacked her with the blunt of my sword then bashed her forehead with my shield. In her daze, The Coming Dawn grabbed her and flung her into the coffin.

  My brother, Raziel, awaited to slam it, but in a final burst of vengeance, she grabbed his arm, shattering it as she dragged him inside. I ran to save him. Mereen slammed it shut.

  I stared in shock at the screaming coffin—first bearing two voices but soon only one, the pitiful, furious, sobbing cry of the monster. I joined it.

  A long and harrowing day. Flowridia shed not a single tear.

  She stared at the blank pages, mind reeling to piece together the words with the puzzle of the woman she had loved.

  The woman she still loved.

  “Flowridia?” Tazel spoke gently, his words barely breaking through the muted fog surrounding her mind. “Are you all right?”

  “I think I’ve read enough for today,” she whispered, and she stood up, feeling as though her soul floated beside her own body, for she was a mere puppet on strings. “I appreciate your help, but I think I need to be alone now.”

  He gave no farewell but a nod.

  Demitri and Ana followed, the former saying nothing as she climbed the stairs, heading not to her bedroom, but to Ayla’s.

  * * *

  Flowridia, standing before the door, couldn’t bring herself to enter.

  Mom?

  She shook her head at her familiar. Instead, she reached into her bodice and gripped the ear in her hand, the one forever placed beside her heart.

  “Casvir said,” she whispered, “that her death, in service of me, was as kind and poetic an end as she deserved. That I was the only redeeming quality he ever saw in her.” Her eyes shut, and this time she let her tears flow freely. “I don’t know what I should do, Demitri.”

  You don’t have to decide that now.

  So wise, her sweet boy. Flowridia placed a hand upon his head. “I’m searching for answers I simply won’t find. Crying into the void, as Casvir said.”

  Demitri licked her cheek. We’ll find them someday. Maybe you can ask her yourself, once you bring her back.

  Her limbs lost feeling at the statement, growing cold from the anxiety filling her. Bring Ayla back?

  Scourge of the Sun Elves, who for a thousand years inflicted torture and death upon those surrounding her, with a body count of hundreds of thousands or more, and with no remorse. “I don’t know what I want anymore.” In measured motions, she removed the chain from around her neck. She held the ear in her open hands. “I don’t even know if her love was sincere.”

  Yet her very soul rejected the notion. She saw the pain in Ayla’s eyes at her apology, the desperation in her proclamation of love. For all her crimes, all her monstrous deeds. Flowridia remembered the night they danced, when Ayla had so lovingly led her across the floor, taught her to step, how to hold her skirt. How perfect, the love in her countenance. There had been no monster then, no fangs or death or talk of torture—only Ayla in her purest form, holding her close, changed by her love.

  But . . . had she been? That image of her secret chamber, of the victim on the slab bombarded her perfect scene. All that blood and those eyes—those eyes.

  Soft tears streamed down Flowridia’s face. “I never mourned her. For all my sorrow, I held to the hope of her return.” Her hand clenched around the ear, trembling. “Perhaps that was my mistake.”

  A sob escaped her lips. The ear fell to the ground as she brought her hands up to cover her face. Ayla was gone, Ayla was gone . . . and Ayla would stay gone.

  Why did she feel so empty, still?

  * * *

  A final resting place, then.

  Tearfully, she had knocked on Casvir’s door, giving no explanation but requesting the body. He obeyed, and he did not ask. She was brought a plain, wooden coffin.

  The box was light, its mistress small and shriveled, and so Flowridia carried it with ease down the labyrinth’s halls. Demitri followed with Ana in tow, the former of which said nothing as he walked by her side.

  She dared to return, yes. Aimless, she wandered, but there was only one destination. When the smell grew strong, Flowridia approached the archway without fear. “Prepare yourself, Demitri. But there is no danger here.”

  She entered the cathedral, braced for blasphemy and horror. Though it sickened her soul, she soaked in the details, marveled at the macabre creation. The statue of leather and flesh bore the Goddess’ countenance, her jeweled tears shining. The mockery of stained glass held detailed scenes, ones Flowridia dared to approach and inspect. Visages of demons, of Izthuni and The Endless Night, a great, unblinking eye, and a spider-like monster bearing lengthy limbs, consuming elven flesh.

  There was beauty in the horror, like Ayla herself. She had fought with the grace of a dancer on a stage, tearing her opponents to shreds in perfect sync. A wonder to watch, great and terrible both.

  Demitri followed, soaking it in as she did. It wounded her to introduce this to his young mind, but he was hardly a child anymore. I understand why you were scared.

  “I can take you back.”

  No, I want to be here for you. And for Lady Ayla.

  Such a sweet boy.

  Flowridia approached the altar, the box still in hand. The visage of the Goddess eternally wept, and Flowridia wondered why and how and all manner of impossible things, understanding she might never, save from the lips of the dead woman she held. Ayla had constructed a mockery of the Goddess, and in the end, the Goddess had slain her.

  How a Goddess of benevolence could inspire such pure hatred from a monster should not have unsettled her so. Flowridia looked down to the altar between them. Burn, it read.

  In its mirror, in a cathedral of divinity and light, she and Ayla had made love a final time upon this altar. Perhaps that’s why it cut so deep.

  She left it behind and instead went to the door to the back, prepared for the onslaught of terror. The smell sickened her, the corpse she had slain slowly emulsifying in the underground air. She looked around the display, recognizing its genius, though it wounded her so. This was Ayla’
s life; this was her legacy.

  But not her love. Flowridia’s foot brushed the discarded, translucent cloth she had dropped. With care, she placed the coffin on the ground and gathered the embroidered fabric in her arms. It bore the texture of silk, fine and soft, decorated with pastel thread. By chance, she saw the dress form from the corner of her eye, the unfinished gown, and realized they were the same. The white skirt, long and flowing, matched the fabric in her hands, and Flowridia recalled the leather book, Flowridia Darkleaf embossed in perfect script . . . and understood.

  It should have frightened her, and it did, Ayla’s presumptuous airs about romance both endearing and shocking. But in her broken state, Flowridia clung to the promise, the future stolen away, and knew assuredly that it had been true.

  She touched the coffin, the one holding a monster too wicked for this world, the one who had wrought destruction and death, who left a legacy of horror too dark to contemplate. But when she opened the box, bracing herself for the eternal scream, she felt an outpouring of sorrow and love.

  Flowridia set out the embroidered veil, folding it just so, and lifted the corpse into her arms, trembling as she placed it down. A funeral shroud it would be now, an ending instead of a beginning.

  With finality, Flowridia placed the chained ear around the corpse’s neck, letting the ear itself land gracefully onto Ayla’s dead heart. She carefully folded the cloth to cover her love, the corpse visible beneath the translucent material.

  Flowridia lifted the wrapped corpse and cradled Ayla in her arms. She cried, the suppressed feelings of the months welling up all at once. “I love you, Ayla,” she managed between sobs.