by S D Simper
She barely noticed when Khastra frowned, and rather darkly. “I am wearing the height of De’Sindai fashion, Etolié—”
“Fuck, that’s not . . .” Etolié bit her lip because she just couldn’t stop being a bitch apparently. “I’m sorry. I’ve never seen you wear a dress. You didn’t wear a dress to Clarence and Lyra’s wedding.”
“I was on duty for Clarence and Lyra’s wedding.”
Khastra still held the tone of ‘I’m-definitely-offended-and-rightfully-so,-ma’am,’ so Etolié met her gaze, whispered, “You look beautiful,” and meant it. “Like a sunset. With the orange and your dark blue . . .” Her voice faded, contrite and embarrassed and a little self-loathing, if she were being honest.
Khastra’s offense disappeared, replaced with a genuine smile. “Thank you,” she said, the gentleness in her tone utterly jarring—contrary to everything Etolié knew of her favorite beefcake. “You look stunning, Etolié.”
“Look at you and your fancy compliments, jerk,” Etolié said, grateful when Khastra kept her smile at the jest. “Thanks. Will you sit with me?”
With a glance to the seat obviously assigned to her, given its impressive size, Khastra replied with, “I am to sit with Nox’Kartha.”
“Fuck ‘em. You can swap with Sora. It’ll do her well to acquaint herself with the enemy.” She winked and stole Khastra’s hand, grateful when she was amiably led through the aisle.
When she looked away from Khastra’s elegant face, she saw an ensemble from the Theocracy of Sol Kareena whispering as they stared at her and Khastra’s intertwined fingers. Priestess Emilla was among them, her knowing smirk twisting Etolié’s stomach.
Etolié released her.
Khastra sat in the comically small seat, one that somehow accommodated six hundred-or-so pounds of muscle, but Etolié was, if she were being honest, extremely hung up on the unexpected cleavage. She didn’t mean to stare, but the swirls of silver tattoos peeking from the garment suggested they really did cover all of Khastra, which was a thought Etolié had contemplated a time or two, but never in the context of them marking Khastra’s naughty bits.
Khastra’s hand on her forearm startled Etolié out of her inner monologuing. “You are very quiet.”
Etolié met her eye, realizing that she had zoned out while staring at the aforementioned cleavage. “Thinking. Sorry.” She looked down to Khastra’s arm and stole it, turning it over as she ran a gentle finger along the lines etched into her forearm, marveling at how they shone at her touch—the magic in them, Khastra had once explained, reacted to the magic innate within Etolié.
“They are demonic writings, Etolié. This one is for strength . . . for aim . . . for protection against the undead . . .”
“Why are you stressed?”
Etolié continued the motions, finding the patterns soothing to her addled brain. “I don’t know,” she whispered.
She refused to think on it, quieting her brain except for the illuminate tattoos. Etolié’s finger slowly traced up Khastra’s arm, her substantial bicep coming alight as the sigils on her forearm faded. Beautiful, all of them, hues of silver and blue bearing patterns relaxing to Etolié’s manic mind.
Something was different, and it was tearing Etolié apart.
The thought jarred her from the repetitive motions. She released Khastra’s arm and instead placed her hands in her lap.
She missed the touch. Etolié took Khastra’s forearm and wrapped hers around it.
Something was different, as told by this bottomless divide between them. Even touching, they were no longer close enough.
“Khastra!”
Etolié quickly took her arm back, forcing a smile when Lara approached the pair. Khastra immediately rose and embraced the empress, and Etolié felt the void where her touch had once been. “Hello, Lara.”
Like Etolié, Khastra had been a sort of kindly, overbearing aunt to Lara, their visits to the screaming toddler princess frequent and, despite the aforementioned screaming, something to cherish. Lara wiped away tears when she pulled away.
Whatever conversation they shared, Etolié didn’t listen, instead content to look to the back of the tent. Flowers caught her eye, smiling broadly as she waved.
Etolié could never stay angry with the doe-eyed girl for long. She grinned and might’ve moved to say hello, but the lights dimmed.
Murishani came to stand at the front of a decorated podium, spouting a practiced speech about love and matrimony and the beautiful union they would soon be blessed to witness, etc, etc. He gushed, and Etolié found his sincerity remarkable.
With Lara at one side and Khastra on the other, Etolié nearly felt whole. She wrapped her arm around the half-demon’s bicep, swallowing the sudden rise of panic at the gesture. The normalcy would be short-lived. Lara would return to Solvira, Khastra would be whisked away, and, though seated far behind, Etolié thought of Flowers and suspected she would soon too.
Etolié smiled as Thalmus walked Marielle down the aisle, even teared up when Zorlaeus burst into some rather ugly sobs. Her grip on Khastra’s arm tightened as the couple clasped hands, and when Murishani dared to mention Marielle’s father, Etolié silently cursed the viceroy’s name.
Whatever her happiness at Marielle’s joy, the queen played Staelash right into Nox’Kartha’s hands, and Etolié was left alone to pry them out.
She’d once had a wonderful life. Clarence’s passing had jarred her future forward, but she hadn’t felt life slipping away in the moment—it wasn’t until Khastra’s death that she’d realized the hourglass had finished.
Khastra placed a hand on Etolié’s, squeezing to convey what comfort she could.
When the couple kissed, Etolié pulled her arm away and joined in the applause, realizing life would never be the same again.
* * *
The wedding party marched themselves away.
The festivities began. Mountains of food were wheeled in on banquet tables, along with barrels of ale and stores of wine—none of which Etolié had been asked to provide.
For risk of offending Eionei, Etolié drank from her own flask tonight, casually standing away from the revelers. Lara stood somewhere within, making nice with politicians, Etolié was sure.
Looking a bit lonely in the corner, Flowers surveyed the scene. Etolié thought to join her, but Khastra came up instead, sipping at the stein in her hand. “Maintaining the peace?” the half-demon said, her smile as wide as the walls of the tent.
“By avoiding the chaos? Absolutely.” Etolié took a long drink of her flask, basking in the burning promise of non-sobriety as it gushed down her throat. “I’ve made nice for too many days in a row now. Marielle can take the lead.”
The monarch stood with her new husband, laughing as she greeted well-wishers.
“You have had guests for two days, Etolié.”
“Don’t call me out like this.”
Khastra chuckled, and it felt like the better days of Staelash, when Clarence had completed their unwilling trio and Khastra had been as constant as a shadow.
Etolié swallowed the sudden rise in unpleasant feelings. Weddings were meant for fun, not existential crises.
Instead, she looked back to Marielle and Zorlaeus and couldn’t help but smile at their radiant joy. “I’ve never understood marriage,” she said aloud. “They don’t have it up in Celestière. Everyone’s immortal, so why commit?”
“Nor in Sha’Demoni,” Khastra replied, a wistful sort of joy overtaking her features. She was either drunk as hell or merely reminiscent. “I accept that I am odd.”
“My mom’s a loony too. No shame.” Etolié brought her flask up to her lips but dropped it instead, letting it fall into the extra-dimensional space she’d claimed. “Explain it to me, then. Why marriage?”
Khastra’s perfect control manifested in her thoughtful actions and words both. Etolié had admired that for all their years together. She grew quiet, her elegant face showing only stoicism. “Living for someone else is, at time
s, what makes life worth living at all. To care for someone, and to know you are in turn cared for, and to have the hope of building a life together is a beautiful thing.” Her full lips pulled into a frown, faint lines marring her smooth skin. “May I burden you with a story? Perhaps it will illustrate my point.”
All the party had disappeared. “Always, Beefcake.”
“When I was young, but still older than you, I fell into a deep despair. Immortality was a daunting reality I had not accepted, and so I sought to end it. I threw myself off Chaos’ Sorrow—the tallest cliff in Zauleen.”
In twenty-four years of knowing Khastra, Etolié had never known that.
“I lived. I was discovered by an elven fisherman who took me into his home and tended to me, showed me a tenderness I had never experienced. With him, I felt warmth, and in time, he felt the same. Which isn’t to say I had never had conquests in my past, but I had never felt such joy with anyone. We fell in love, and we married. My life held meaning for the first time in centuries.
“He passed too soon, succumbing to illness before he could grow old. I was heartbroken, but I was changed. I understood a fundamental truth about life that Sha’Demoni could not teach me, that life was about balance—conflict brought glory and power, but love brought security and joy. It took a hundred years for me to grieve, but when I met an elven priestess of the Goddess Chaos, although I was surprised to feel my heart yearning for her, I embraced it. We married, and I was blessed to have her grow old at my side. I loved her until she passed in her sleep.
“What I mean to say, Etolié, is life has different meanings for different people. Marriage is about living for someone other than yourself, and it is what I needed in those times of my life.”
Etolié thought of nothing, merely listened and perhaps understood. When Khastra paused, she dared to ask, “And you’ve been married, what, twelve times?”
“Eleven. Seven husbands; four wives. I also did not marry everyone I loved—elven marriages are for status and money and rarely for love. The human woman I married lived only a few precious years, but the child we raised lived on to bring me many years of joy. All my children did, even those who inherited my mother’s wickedness. Even those I had to slay.” Khastra’s smile held the weight of ten thousand years, and never, in all their time together, had Etolié felt so unbearably young. “Eleven different lives, each one a bittersweet delight.”
Etolié’s gut brewed an anxiety she couldn’t name. “Think you’d ever make it twelve?” she teased, and she dared to add a wink.
But Khastra shook her head. “Not in Nox’Kartha. Not with a future as an undead general. My life is over, Etolié. Now, I embrace death as a new adventure.”
Etolié didn’t think when she reached over to steal Khastra’s hand, the one not holding Nox’Karthan Ale. Whatever emotion overwhelmed her—and overwhelm her, it did—it still paled to her need to comfort her demon’s cold, metal heart and see her smile.
Something ineffable had twisted their friendship, something Etolié couldn’t name. But she interlaced their fingers and shyly met Khastra’s gaze. “Khastra—”
A gasp from the audience, stole her attention, and then her own stole Khastra’s. With wide eyes, Etolié’s jaw dropped at the absolute scandal before them.
* * *
In the ensuing bustling of servants, the wheeling out of food and fresh flowers and a gorgeous cake, no one noticed Flowridia weeping in the corner.
Demitri, never one for parties, had elected to stay behind. To spite him, Flowridia wore the green dress, the one that showed too much of her chest and left him with Ana and the ear once more. Now, she wished she’d begged him to come so she could hide behind his fur.
She’d leave soon, but first force a smile, wish Marielle well, then hide in her garden, warded tonight to detour even innocent wandering guests, lest it be a meeting place for drunken festivities.
By every god—the wedding had hurt.
Marielle had earned her joy, had loved Zorlaeus from the start. And Flowridia truly was happy for them. But she remembered a notebook waiting back in Nox’Kartha bearing a name she longed for but had not earned; she remembered the veil serving as a funeral shroud for its maker.
Flowridia wondered what a joy it would be to be here with Ayla, to be aghast at her perturbed snark toward the bride, to share a drink and dance and simply . . . be.
To simply be, instead of heartbroken and sick with the price of her return. In watching Marielle’s joy, she’d caught a glimpse of a future she craved above all, to stand across an altar in white and pledge her affection—to be Flowridia Darkleaf in more than merely spirit.
Mother would have called her a romantic fool to tie herself to anyone, to stunt her potential, or so she would have called it. But Flowridia had never aspired for power or for a name to inspire fear. A quiet life in the woods—just she, Ayla, and Demitri.
Flowridia forced a smile as she stood against the wall of the tent, surveying the sea of guests. She saw Etolié alone and might’ve joined her, had Khastra not come to stand beside her. There was Marielle and Zorlaeus, standing beneath a decorated arch, greeting guests as they came. In the distance, Flowridia saw Lara among the Solviran party, casually sipping from a wineglass.
“You’re an absolute tragedy to watch.”
From the other side of the cake, Flowridia realized Murishani spoke. She peered around, watching him eye the crowd with intrigue. On instinct, she searched for Casvir.
“To know you must damn yourself to save your lover’s soul . . . I can’t even imagine your grief.”
“You aren’t supposed to talk to me.”
Murishani peered around, forced shock on his composure. “Goodness! I hadn’t even noticed you.” Then, he returned to his spot, hidden behind the cake. “As I was saying, you and I both know I don’t have your best interest at heart.” A slight clinking of glass, and Murishani slid a wineglass across the table. “For courage.”
Flowridia took the stem, carefully sniffing the liquid. “What is this?”
“Courage, as I said. Nothing more. A bit of wine, and the empress will say anything—I wonder if it’ll do the same for you.”
Flowridia watched the liquid swirl in the glass, realizing her hand trembled.
“What you want is wicked, Flowridia. Ayla is wicked. And you’ll have to be wicked if you want to be worthy of her.”
Izthuni had said the same. By every god—she remembered Palace’s screams.
“I don’t know that I was ever as precocious as you,” he mused. “But I do remember my first truly heinous act. I had a younger sister once. A half-sister—can’t say I loved her, but I was loyal. When I was thirteen, I learned a group of children had been bullying her. Now, I knew the woods around the city where our mother whored. Well enough to befriend those same children and convince them of a grand treasure waiting inside a cave—a pity, that the treasure was a mother bear. The rest is history.” His smile held pure malice, as wicked as his soul. “There is merit in learning to twist words and coerce the sheep around you. Whatever your aspirations, it pays to have people like you.”
The red in the glass was as dark as blood. “What are you asking me to do?” Flowridia said, dread filling her stomach.
“There are three driving forces in this world—sex, money, and power. I told you that. Which does Empress Alauriel crave, and how will you exploit it to get what you want?”
Flowridia merely shook her head.
“And so Ayla will have died for nothing.”
Fresh tears welled in her eyes.
“No one will do this for you; not if you crave that happy ending. One wicked act, and then your world is restored.”
The wineglass fell. It shattered on the ground, nearly splattering Flowridia’s dress. When a servant came by with a tray, she stole two more and forced them down. By every god—it burned, fouler than even the vile concoctions her mother had brewed in the swamp. Coughing, sputtering, tears stung her eyes as she placed the empty
glasses on the table.
“You’ve given your all for the world, Lady Flowridia. Take one thing for yourself.”
She held no certainty as she stumbled forward. Swallowing tears, she wove into the crowd—
Only for the empress herself to stumble back into her. Wine flecked across Lara’s dress and chest, shock marring her features. “I am so sorry,” Lara said, visibly horrified.
Flowridia shook her head. “I’m fine. But your dress—”
Lara seemed sober enough, though the slight swaying of her stance meant she had consumed something. “No, no—I have spare dresses. This one wasn’t comfortable anyway. I can pop out and back in—”
“I can help you if you’d like.”
Lara shook her head, a blush coloring her cheeks. “I couldn’t ask that of you.”
“At the very least, I can help you take it off.”
Those silver eyes searched Flowridia’s face, perhaps looking for meaning. Gathering her courage, and praying the wine dampened her self-loathing soon, Flowridia stepped forward. With a permissive glance, she gently pressed their lips together.
There she lingered, the shocked crowd lost among the flush movements of Lara’s lips. A scandal, to publicly kiss a foreign ruler.
She pulled back, taking in Lara’s surprise. The Solviran Empress slowly brought a hand to cover her blushing cheeks. “That was . . .” Her words trailed off as she glanced around at the staring crowd, then set her gaze to the ground. “. . . forward.”
A creeping, cold wash of embarrassment filled Flowridia. “Was I mistaken—”
Lara’s words came in a flood. “No, not mistaken, but let’s take this somewhere private?”
Something earnest waited in those silver eyes. When Lara offered a hand, Flowridia accepted, confused until her stomach suddenly twisted—
They were no longer at the wedding, but in Lara’s suite in the manor.
