Solace Lost

by Michael Sliter

  She and Saren would kiss then, of course, with a gentle, enviable embrace. Afterwards, her father would host a reception, a festival in the village green. Sheri and Liza Pilt would play their flutes, and the town would dance, Saren and Meri in the center of it all. Kev Andem would sing songs of spirited songs of love in his deep baritone. They would break bread together as a community, as a family, and her Ragen would give a speech, laced with love, but releasing her into the care of Saren. It would be a perfect day. The best day of her life.

  Meri smiled a soft smile at the thought—it was girl’s dream, but one that could become reality if her date went well. First things first, though. Meri had to get ready. She was actually pleased that Saren had delayed until tomorrow. It would give her a chance to see to a new outfit. She saw her long-abandoned knitting basket then, but realized that she would never finish her blue shawl in time for her evening with Saren. She could go back to the Duckling and get one of her nice dresses from her wardrobe, but she didn’t want to risk running into Ragen. And with no peddlers currently in town, Merigold had only one option.

  ---

  Meri pounded on Sandra’s door for a third time, knuckles smarting from the heavy blows. Her friend tended to sleep until late in the day and, given the position of the sun, Meri was pretty confident that Sandra would still be at home. Her older friend’s home was smaller than Ragen and hers, a whitewashed wooden cabin consisting of little more than two rooms and a closet. Sandra’s parents, bakers both, had left for Hunesa years ago in the pursuit of profits, leaving Sandra to her life in the small village, gifting her their land and the isolated house on the eastern edges of town. It was part of a ploy to find the wild girl a husband—an enticing plot of land and well-built, cozy home for the cost of taming Sandra. The plan, of course, had failed.

  Sandra, bleary-eyed and with her hair askew, finally answered the door. She blinked in the light of the sun and squinted at Meri for a moment, as if trying to divine her name.

  “Merigold! Izzat you?” Sandra asked, sounding a bit disoriented.

  “Of course, Sandy! Rise and shine!” said Meri in an intentionally high-pitched voice. Sandra flinched and motioned for Meri to enter.

  Despite her rarely being home, Sandra’s house was a cluttered mess. Expensive clothes were strewn about, dishes lay discarded on nearly every surface, and there was an odd odor in the room. Meri couldn’t place it, but it smelled thick, maybe old oil, perfume, and liquor. Almost automatically, Meri began picking up clothes as Sandra slumped back onto her couch, sighing like a sunset.

  “What do you need, Merigold? I don’t feel too well today,” said Sandra, closing her eyes and pressing her fingertips to her brows. Even in her disheveled state, Sandra was undeniably a beautiful woman. With waist-length strawberry blonde hair, an hourglass figure, and a symmetrical face with large, luminous green eyes, it was no surprise that she was so popular with men. Meri, even, constantly felt her gaze drawn to Sandra, to her near-perfect features that might have been molded after Inessa, the pagan goddess of desire that the girls in town whispered about. Though men like Saren were strong and charming, they lacked the simple grace of women, the perfection of form, and a certain… softness that Meri found so inviting. But, whenever she found her eyes lingering on Sandra’s—or another woman’s—lips or hips or hands, Meri looked hurriedly away. The Yetranian faith warned against such thoughts and behaviors, and Merigold was nothing if not devout.

  Love is the catalyst for procreation. All else is touched by Pandemonium. Longorius. His chapter was full of warnings.

  Her devotion had always been there. As long as she remembered, Merigold had attended each Yetranian service in Dunmore and celebrated every religious holiday. She had memorized nearly every passage in The Book of Amorum, and held her faith close to her heart, just as Ragen and Taneo Marsh had taught her. Merigold had even tried to spread the joy of Yetra through her actions, just as the Book advised, and adhere to the tenants of the faith as well as she could.

  Although, she often fell short. Occasional white lies, infrequent manipulations, and very rare extended glances at women. And, the fact that she was finally willing to bed a man before being married.

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing,” said Meri sweetly. Sandra groaned, sensing the ruse. “Actually… I could use two things. Some clothes, and some advice. So… I… Earlier today, at the bridge…”

  “Spit it out, little sister.” Though not truly related to Meri, Sandra was about five years older and had self-styled herself as the older sibling in their friendship.

  “I… that is… I asked Saren to meet me tomorrow night. Ragen won’t be around.” The last part was a hushed, conspiratory whisper.

  Sandra sat straight up, clenched shut her eyes, and flopped right back down with a dizzy groan.

  “So, little Meri is finally going to become a big girl,” she drawled, a sly smile crossing her tired face.

  “Sandy, it’s not like that! It’s… well, it is like that! And I’m not sure what to do. I thought, well, that you might give me some advice.” Meri flopped to the chair opposite Sandra and began playing her fingers through her hair.

  Sandra pushed herself into a seated position, and with more success this time. She leveled a glare at Meri, her eyes sparkling emerald ponds. “So, you came to the local whore for advice?”

  Whore. Meri had heard that word whispered around Dunmore and the inn, particularly from other village women, about Sandra. Sandra bitterly resented the term, and said those others were simply jealous that she drew the eyes of their brothers, sons, and husbands. “Absolutely not! But, you have so many stories, and I thought you could help. And, who else would I talk to? My father?”

  “You know I’m kidding you, little sis. But, I’m surprised, though.” Sandra fumbled around with some matches, lighting a sweet lavender candle. The usually-calming scent filled Meri’s nostrils, though it did little to massage her taut nerves. “You’ve been talking about Saren for a year, now. More than a year, maybe. And, you’ve always talked about marriage first. What makes you suddenly so bold?”

  “I… I’m not sure. Maybe, I felt like I needed to do something for a change. Instead of continuing to wait. I’m sick of waiting, Sandy.” Meri continued to fiddle with the ends of her hair, tugging on the platinum locks. She didn’t look up.

  “And what would your Taneo say about this? What would your Yetra say about this?”

  “He is not my Taneo, and she is not my Yetra. Taneo Marsh belongs to the Dunford, to the people. And Yetra belongs to us all.” Sandra theatrically rolled her eyes and stuck out her tongue. She wouldn’t soon be a convert. “But, I’ve thought about this. The Book speaks a great deal about love, about laying with a man. The act is sacred, and it is meant to bring new life into this world, to spread Harmony. The Book says nothing about marriage; I think that’s something added later, more of a tradition than a Yetranian law. And… I think I love Saren, and that he can grow to love me. I think we can have something special.”

  “You love him?” Sandra’s tone was flat.

  “Well… I might. And Phillipa writes ‘The only risks worth taking are those for love.’ So I need to take that risk. You’ve hear what they’ve said about Saren and his friends—they aren’t interested in the cow unless they are sure they like the milk.” She’d heard rumors about Saren, that he was quite willing to bed women in Dunmore and some of the small, nearby communities. Farmers daughters, that kind of thing. She’d seen no hard proof, but the whispers… Most men, Meri thought, seemed to treat Yetranian guidelines on sex and marriage as more loose suggestions than rules.

  “And, you expect your… milk might convince him to buy Merigold, the mooing cow?” Sandra raised an eyebrow.

  Meri shook her head. “No. Or yes. But, I think that Saren and I have a deeper connection than you expect, than he might have with other girls. And, I think we just need a night together to continue to build our bond. Like Phillipa says….”

  “’The o
nly risks worth taking are those for love’,” mocked Sandra. She stretched languorously, shifting and reclining into her couch like a dog seeking just the right spot for a nap. “Your little book can justify anything if you look closely enough. But, use whatever justification you need, little sis, to finally get yourself speared.”

  “It’s not like that, Sandy. It’s more than just… lust,” said Merigold, not sure whether she was being honest with herself. Why was she so keen on making love with Saren? Because she truly expected that Saren would end up her husband? Because she loved, or could love, this handsome forager and mender? Because she wanted some distraction from her guilt about that Fenrir? Or, was there some other reason, hidden from even Meri, that pushed her toward this man?

  Sandra smiled a knowing smile. “Whatever you say, flower girl. Now, relax and let me tell you a little bit about how a man works.”

  Sandra began teaching then, starting with how to kiss a man. How to gently brush his lips and then pull away. How to kiss his neck and move to his ear and whisper something dirty.

  “Something like ‘I can’t wait to feel your sword inside me.’ You try, little sis.”

  “Um… ‘I want to feel, uh, your sword, uh…” attempted Meri, turning as red as the innards of a cherry pie.

  “That’s great—you are really getting it,” said Sandra sardonically. “Either way, let’s continue. With your cute little body, you can say gibberish and still make a man pop out of his trousers.” Meri felt like her head would pop with so much blood having rushed to her face.

  Sandra continued, discussing how to remove a man’s shirt without interrupting the kissing. How to step back and remove her own blouse, in full sight of that man. How it made them go crazy. How to start handling him with his trousers still on, making him want it so badly. Then, lying back on whatever surface was nearby—a bed, a counter, a barrel—and beckoning him. Letting him remove your garments. Forcing his head into your flower (but be sure to scrub first! Sandra had a great recipe consisting of ungle flowers and vinegar). “Then, once he’s done you a favor,” Sandra said, “since his cock likely won’t be able to do the job on its own, unlace his trousers. Let him enter you, but draw backwards so he’ll have to move slowly.”

  “But, Sandy. Does it hurt… the first time?” asked Meri, starting to feel a touch of excitement about the whole ordeal—a very physical excitement, truth be told. The arousal mingled with her anxiety until the two swirled together like a summer storm.

  “Gods, I can barely remember. I was so young,” said Sandy, becoming a bit withdrawn, face shadowed. “But yes, I believe it hurts. And let him know it hurts! Men revel in that pain, knowing that they are the first to despoil you.”

  “Not despoil! I told you, Sandy, it’s more than that. He will come to love me.”

  “Love and fucking are not as related as you think,” Sandra said, her face as serious as stone. “Now, even though he is inside you, on top of you, don’t give him control…”

  Sandra continued to discuss how a woman could use her legs and buttocks to maintain control, to push him out and guide him in. How she could, and should, flip him onto his back and lower herself upon him, just a little at a time, just onto the tip of his cock at first. Then, how to crash down upon him, taking the entire thing. How to lean back and pull back her hair, putting her body on display as she moved up and down on top of him. And, when he seemed like he would climax, how to remain completely still for a minute or more, buying more time, making him last. Then, when he finally would finish, Sandra said it would be like the rush of a waterfall.

  Meri couldn’t help her excitement at this point in the conversation, her lips parted and her eyes wide. Locking with Sandra’s green eyes for a long, breathless moment. Then she glanced away, letting her hair fall over her face.

  Love is the catalyst for procreation. All else is touched…

  “So, two things. You will need some promade and axsil extract. It will keep you from bearing a child. And you Yetranians do not want to get pregnant before marriage. Say whatever you will about love and creating new life through Harmony, or whatever they are feeding you in that chapel. But, you end up unmarried and pregnant, you’ll see how quickly they turn their backs on you.”

  “Sandy, I can’t…” Meri began.

  “And second, keep a little olive oil on hand just in case you grow nervous.” Sandra barreled right over her concerns. “Just rub a little bit down below before the action begins. But be subtle—no man likes to know that he fails to make a woman wet.”

  Sandra, seemingly completely recovered from her earlier malaise, walked into her second room after she finished offering this last bit of advice. In a matter of minutes, she returned with a small burlap bag containing two small vials—one of the extract and one of olive oil. And, over her shoulder, she had a simple, dark blue dress.

  “Here, little sis. This will get you through the night. And this dress will set off your eyes, making them appear to glow. You will do fine. I just know you will! I’m very proud of you, little sister. Or should I say, little woman,” Sandra laughed at her own joke as she cupped Meri’s chin in her hand for just a moment before pushing her toward the door.

  “Now, if you’d excuse me, little sis, I have my own date to prepare for.”

  Chapter 6

  Following his encounter with Tennyson, Fenrir slept for two straight days. Evidently, the adrenaline from having his life threatened, first by a street-tough and some little girl, and then by Ultner himself, had combined with his head injury to create a perfect storm which simply shut down Fenrir’s mind and body. He awoke confused and dehydrated, uncertain if the last several days had been real or a dream. A vivid and dangerous dream, to be sure—full of muck, fingers, and small, short-haired urchins stabbing him in the stomach. Based on the wholeness of his midsection, the odds were at least slim that the latter event had occurred.

  Stumbling out of his boarding room, Fenrir made his way down to the nearest spigot and took a deep drink of water. Rostane was famous for its water system, where great water barrels stood atop many major, local buildings. Urchins (and even some industrious, impoverished adults and the occasional Wasmer) carried water from the local wells and the Fullane River to the tops of these buildings all day, keeping the barrels filled in exchange for a meager living. The water was then forced out of numerous spigots and outdoor public showers around the city, allowing people to easily access the liquid for their various purposes. In this way, Little Duke Penton could give lip service to helping the poor and homeless, both in allowing them easy access to water and in providing jobs. Of course, it had been his father, Samuel II, who’d actually invested in these public works.

  A current beneficiary of the system, Fenrir drank his fill and soon felt better, noticing that even the ache in his knee was beginning to lessen. The contusion on the back of his head was far less sensitive to the touch, too, and he could actually bear sunlight without any pain. To capitalize on his recovery from injury, and to help him feel human again, Fenrir thoroughly washed himself, first buying a bar of beeswax soap from an ironically unclean vendor. Fenrir’s purse was full of coin. He realized he must have cashed in his payment chit before returning to his room and commencing his temporary coma.

  Fenrir chuckled at the thought. Even scared shitless and suffering from a bruised brain, securing his hard-earned cash was at the top of his damaged mind.

  Once he’d washed, he found that evening was approaching, and a gnawing emptiness in his stomach sharply reminded him that he had last eaten at the crossroads market two and a half days before, so Fenrir set off to find a meal and a beverage a bit stronger than water.

  Fenrir listlessly ambled toward the Gathering, a cluster of inns and taverns decent enough to offer a good meal and drink, but rough enough that he could afford to be a frequent visitor. He hadn’t the motivation to move any faster than a stroll. It may have been the malnutrition or the lingering effects of his head wound, but Fenrir was in a stupor, as if he
were wading through the wetlands again as a young recruit, knee deep in muck and barely mustering the strength to press forward. His mind, too, was distant and disjointed, and seemingly unable to peel away from his recent demotion within The House.

  Truth be told, Fenrir had never particularly relished the job, working as an enforcer. He might be willing to break bones and detach digits, but Tennyson was wrong—he didn’t do so happily. Some enforcers would beg from more work, desiring an outlet for their sickest desires. Aaron the Slicer, for instance, relished causing fear and pain, taking the finger one tiny slice at a time. The Demon—Fenrir didn’t know his real name—‘convinced’ people to slice off their own finger, typically using various threats against their loved ones or more delicate parts of the body. “Your cock or your finger,” was said to be his preferred ultimatum. Maybe there were some cocks mixed in with Tennyson’s box of fingers.

  No, Fenrir didn’t relish the work, but he was willing to do it. The most staggering regret about this was all about status. After being disgraced from the Plateau’s guard, Fenrir at least had some semblance of status, of respect, working for The House, and there was not a single damned job that paid better. With only a few contracts a year, he’d been able to pay his rent, stay well-fed, and keep himself at least relatively drunk most evenings. There’d even been money left over for other obligations. Soft, warm, feminine obligations.

  Now he no longer had that guarantee, and he didn’t know what The House would want from him. From Tennyson’s tone, Fenrir needed to lie low for a few days. As always, they would contact him when he was needed. Just what he would be needed for, he had no idea—nor did he know how lucrative his new role would be. He would obviously not be taking any more fingers, and he certainly wouldn’t be getting a promotion to eliminator: essentially the same job, though the conclusion was a dead body. The real trick there was to eliminate with very little visible harm, aside from the missing finger taken previously by an enforcer. A real art, it was.