by S D Simper
Sora, however, looked directly at her with the sort of disparage that suggested she wasn’t a total moron. “It would mean they had sex, Etolié.”
“But what would it mean . . . for their friendship.”
“I think they’d need to have a talk to establish if they wanted to remain friends or be something more.”
“And that’s the thing,” Etolié said, realizing her gaze was rapidly shifting between the doily and the window, the ceiling and the floor—could she not just sit still, dammit? “Let’s say she doesn’t know how she feels about that.”
“Your friend or your friend’s friend?”
Etolié threw her hands up. “You just asked the next big question, which is ‘how does the friend friend feel?’ Does she want to have more sex with her friend? How long has she wanted to have sex with her friend? And how the fuck are they supposed to talk about this when they’re a thousand miles apart?”
“I lost track of who—”
“And what the hell does that mean, for her to just do the fuck thing and then leave with no explanation? How am I supposed to fucking cope with that?!”
“I don’t know, Etolié. How are you going to cope with that?”
Etolié shut her mouth, words catching in her throat. “I mean, on behalf of my friend.”
“Right. Of course. Do continue.”
“My friend doesn’t know when they’ll see each other again and . . .” Etolié swallowed an uncomfortable rise of something that felt suspiciously like tears. “My friend doesn’t know how to deal with that.”
Sora continued knitting her doily. Etolié wondered if knitting were just a nervous tick old women had—as well as restless half-elves. “Has your friend considered writing a letter?”
Etolié slowly laid herself upon the bench, now staring at the ceiling. “She hasn’t.”
“It might help her sort out her own feelings. And if she decides to send it, it would let the friend’s friend know how the friend felt and then the friend’s friend could write back—” Sora stopped and stole a deep breath. “That’s a mouthful. Anyway, friend friend could write back because the postal service between Staelash and Nox’Kartha is really quite spectacular, thanks to the embassy.”
Etolié perked up. “Really?”
“Assuming that’s where the friend friend is.”
She settled back down, wondering how many drafts it would take to actually break through the weird blockage between her and her feelings.
“And for what it’s worth,” Sora said, “while I obviously don’t know your friend—”
“You don’t.”
“—I’m sure if they’ve been best friends for twenty years, whatever happens, it’ll have a happy ending.”
Etolié smiled, faint and wistful. “I don’t really know what a happy ending means, but I hope you’re right.”
“For her sake.”
Etolié nodded. “For her sake.”
Silence settled, the only sound the constant crunching of dirt and rocks beneath the carriage wheels.
“Sora?”
“Etolié?”
“Do you have any paper?”
Sora had plenty.
* * *
Sleeping beneath the stars, Flowridia’s heart yearned at the memories of her time in Nox’Kartha.
For three days they had walked north, avoiding civilization and resting in copses of trees. Mostly forest and grassland, but Demitri’s speed was impressive, even if he often had to stop and rest.
You try sprinting for hours at a time, mom. I dare you.
So when he rested, he rested hard.
Every night, she had drawn a perfect circle through the dirt and grass around Demitri, marking it with symbols of another world. A ward for safety, one for invisibility, another for deafness to anyone who sought them harm . . . impenetrable and iron-clad, her mother’s specialty.
Demitri’s deep breathing helped her own hold a steady, relaxed pace. But as she rested against her familiar’s fur that night, breaking twigs from beyond brought the eerie awareness that they were not alone.
Frowning, she stood, careful to not jostle her sleeping familiar. “Stay, Ana,” she muttered, and Ana halted in place.
Beyond the trees, nothing but darkness and the occasional twinkling of stars from above met her view. Animals screeched and chattered. The night was far from quiet.
Flowridia stared into the dark forest, the comfort of the wards enough to prevent her from panicking, but something was here.
It was enough to keep her awake all night. Before sunrise, when Demitri stirred, so did she, sitting up to rub her eyes of exhaustion.
From the gifted trunk, she withdrew enough raw meat to create a second Flowridia, which Demitri quickly devoured. “I feel something. I don’t know how to describe it. But please be careful today.”
If I can’t fight it, I can outrun it.
Soon, he stood, and she sat in silence as she dispelled the wards. Exposure smacked her from every side. The muted sounds of the night screamed, from chattering crickets to howling wolves. Day would come soon, but night had yet to settle. “It’s so eerie,” she whispered, “coming back into the world.”
Everyone needs a safe haven. We’re lucky ours can be portable.
She nodded faintly as she stood. “I only wish I could do better.”
The blinding sun shone suddenly through the trees, illuminating she and Demitri and Ana. Yet, she felt no warmth, and as she brought a hand to shield her eyes, she realized it was not the sun she loved—but the Sun she feared.
The God of Order had come.
Flowridia cried, “Demitri—!” but as her familiar knelt to carry her, the roots of the trees suddenly rose to entangle him. Demitri howled as his limbs were tied up in thick, gnarled bark. He struggled, failing to tear himself free. Flowridia felt a rise of nothingness engulf her, purple smoke seeping from her pores as she touched the errant roots and stole the life they held. But even as she infused them with death, it held but a candle to the power she had wielded with the black orb.
More roots came. Demitri soon lay caged. Flowridia dove to her bag, realizing she had one weapon yet to save her—the very weapon the villain sought.
Thunder rumbled above them, the early morning light blockaded by clouds. “Lady Flowridia of Staelash, I will not hesitate to slaughter your familiar, should you take another step.” Soliel had come, standing not ten feet away. He held an orb of swirling green and purple, but she knew the other two were tucked away into his armor. Flowridia rose, the bag touching her feet. “I felt your orb, but I do not feel it now. Where did you hide it?”
Thank every god—the maldectine was working. “I don’t know what you’re talking about—” The roots around Demitri tightened. Her wolf howled in pain, and Flowridia felt it in every nerve of her body. “Stop!”
Soliel did so; the roots loosened. “Well?”
“It’s somewhere you can’t find it. Hidden behind layers of wards that would take even you a thousand years to sift through. You’ll never find it if you hurt me.”
Soliel shook his head. “I think, if I hold a knife to your familiar’s throat, you will tell me. And if I present you tied and helpless to the court of Staelash, they will bend to whatever I ask—including the location of the orb they hold.”
“Staelash doesn’t have an—”
Demitri suddenly howled in pain. Flowridia felt a laceration in her gut and realized, when she looked back, that a tree root had impaled him through his stomach. “Demitri!” she screamed, but when she tried to kneel at his side, fire rose to stand between them, controlled but no less dangerous. “Stop!”
“He’ll bleed out in minutes, unless you tell me the location of your orb.”
Demitri shook, and she heard his pained voice in her head. Spite him. Don’t give it to him—
“Demitri, I can’t lose you. I can’t.” Flowridia covered her face with her hands, the heat from the fire threatening to sear her skin. “The Abyssal Swamp, outside
Ilunnes. My mother’s home.”
The fire fell. Flowridia ran to Demitri, caressed his fur but realized she could do nothing to heal him—though the skin begged to be reformed, the branch was still tearing at his insides.
You liar, you.
To her surprise, Soliel knelt beside her. The root shriveled and shrunk, though Demitri howled at the touch. It pained Flowridia to watch him, but then Soliel’s entire body glowed.
Like Flowridia’s own dark power, but he shone from within in golden light. He removed his armored glove and touched Demitri through the branches. Flowridia gasped as the wound instantly sealed shut, leaving not a trace or scar.
And no pain for her dear familiar. Legends spoke of the God of Order as a benevolent deity who had walked among mortals, gracing them with wisdom and healing, hardly ruling; more a friend.
Somewhere, beneath his corrupted spirit, that same man lingered.
Soliel stood and brought his hand to his lips, then whistled loud enough to frighten the morning away. “You’ll both be coming with me.”
“I told you the truth—”
“Assuming you did, you said yourself that I would need you to break through the wards.”
From the trees, Flowridia saw a strange creature emerge. Horse-like, yes, with its hooves and shape, but it was the sickliest horse she had ever seen—assuming that was what it was. Its snout was swollen, and it bore an enormous hump on its back, supported by impossibly thin legs.
It was also gargantuan, sized to perfectly seat the God of Order. Soliel approached the creature and stole a glowing, golden rope from a saddle bag. He brought it to Demitri and tied a loop around the wolf’s neck, ignoring his furious growling.
The tree roots released Demitri. When the wolf struggled to bite his bond, it held—and sparked when he bit down. Demitri yelped; Flowridia’s bleeding heart ached. “Stop hurting him.”
“He’s hurting himself, at this point.” He spoke to Demitri directly now. “You’ll be treated gently, if you behave. But while I would hesitate to slit the throat of your mistress, I have no such qualms about you.” Soliel looked to Flowridia. “Understood?”
She nodded, and when he gestured for her to offer her arms, he tied her wrists with the same rope. “With your consent, you’ll ride with me.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“It’s a long ride to Ilunnes.” He offered a hand, and Flowridia realized he was entirely serious in his odd chivalry.
Nervous, she nodded, uneasy when he placed his hands around her and lifted her gently onto the saddle of the odd, monstrous creature. It reminded her of time past, when Casvir had helped her to ride her horse, but instead of cold claws, she felt a warm human hand and one armored.
She watched him place his glove back on before moving to settle behind her. “I think your horse is sick,” she said, though when she touched it, she felt nothing amiss.
“Not a horse. In Moratham, they breed camels large enough to accommodate half-giants. You’ve never seen one?”
Flowridia shook her head. This did explain why he had come so far south, but while the camel might be perfectly nice looking for its species, she couldn’t rid the image of it being the ugliest horse she’d ever seen.
His arms were a cage as he took the reins. With her back pressed against his chest, she felt his warmth, lit from within like a furnace.
Or, perhaps, a dying star. His supernova would destroy the worlds as they knew it.
The camel began a steady pace. Back into the thick gathering of trees, and Flowridia was utterly mute from fear. She felt Ana squirm in her bag and silently pled for her to still. Below, Demitri followed, and when she caught his eye, she felt courage enough to ask, “Are you all right?”
To be honest, better than I’ve ever felt. Even if I intend to rip his limbs off once you’re safe.
But she forgot that Soliel sat beside her. “I don’t believe I understand the question.”
“I was talking to Demitri,” she replied, surprised at the gentleness in his wicked voice. “But I suppose everyone needs someone to ask that sometimes.” Empowered, though still near frozen from fear, Flowridia looked back at the glowing God. “Are you all right?”
The camel still moved, but Soliel stared down, his eyes adopting the softness of their color—a gentle brown, flecked with green. An amused chuckle escaped his chest, reverberating against her body. “I spent ten thousand years trapped in a ghostly shell beneath the earth waiting for the world to remember me. I cannot lie and say the last six months have been any more pleasant.”
“With due respect, you don’t have to be doing this.”
She said it with as much sincerity as she could muster; still, he laughed. “It is my duty to balance the world after her wrongdoing. There is no other purpose for me. Once it is fulfilled, you may swing the sword yourself if you are alive to see the new world.”
The reminder of her own mortality chilled her blood, numbing her limbs. She recalled his previous words—“I know your death”—and dared to ask, “What does it mean?”
“It means that I truly have no purpose once—”
“No,” she interrupted, recalling the memory haunting her sleep, of the screaming dragon who had burned alive to save her. “I apologize. You told me once that you knew my death. What does that mean?”
The clouds had dissipated. Sunlight speckled down through the leaves, casting her dire situation into an almost cheery atmosphere. “You know I was born and raised in this era. I knew your name, and I knew your legacy. I know how you die.”
“You called me Flowridia Darkleaf.”
“Forgive me. It was who you were.”
It was foolish—so terribly foolish—to let those words be of comfort, but it assured something dangerous and true—that at least in that timeline, Flowridia had found the life she desperately craved.
“Did you know me?”
This time, Soliel shook his head.
Morning birds sang. Flowridia felt uneasy, even with their comfort. “Valeuron deemed me worthy of the orb,” she whispered. “Do you know why?”
“I do not know what Valeuron saw in your future to precisely decide you were worth granting it to. But to know your future would mean to take it away—do not ask me more of this.”
Valeuron had been a son to him—she recalled the image Valeuron had shown, of Soliel standing with kindness in his visage; she remembered the comfort she’d felt in the arms of a woman she suspected was his counterpart.
“Did you create him?”
“She and I both, yes. Formed from clay and granted life. She had always wanted children but could not conceive them; she loved them with all her heart.”
Yet, Soliel had slain one in cold blood.
No accounts she’d read had written of love between them, yet Flowridia suspected—she had seen it in the wistful works of art, in Valeuron’s daring to use Chaos’ legacy against Soliel. If he and the Goddess of Chaos had given life to something new, Flowridia struggled to imagine a truer expression of love. “She must have been dear to you.”
“Yes.”
“Did you love her?”
Something wistful settled onto his handsome face. “I loved her the moment I saw her. She was beautiful and vibrant, but in the way lightning foretells a thunderstorm. Dangerous. Intelligent. Unpredictable. The embodiment of chaos in every real way.”
The words he spoke left gashes in her mind, memories welling from the wounds of a tempestuous woman too wicked for this world who held Flowridia’s heart frozen in an icy stare. “I understand that love is complicated.”
“The price of love is always high, Flowridia. I loved her for an eternity, and at times, she loved me too. But I think we were always meant to tear the other apart.” Then, quite suddenly, his jaw grit. “Forgive me—I have said too much.”
“I don’t mind—”
“I dare not say more.”
They lapsed into silence. Flowridia clutched her bag to her chest, knowing her fate would be
sealed if he knew what she hid within it.
* * *
“Read this, won’t you?”
Etolié handed Sora draft twenty-four of her letter to Khastra.
The half-elf snatched it away with much more force than Etolié’s unnervingly sober mind could handle. She pulled her flask from the air and drank, not stopping until she heard a voice say, “You want me to read the whole thing again? Why not just recite what’s new?”
Etolié sensed a bit of exasperation. “Look, I have to make sure it feels complete.”
“I don’t need to read a seventh time about how her ‘sucking on my nipples evoked a tenderness I’d never felt before.” Sora dropped the letter on the bench. “Sorry—the ‘pink and sensitive buds of my breasts.’ This is nauseating. And much more information than I needed to know.”
Etolié curled up on her side, the bench cushioning her exhausted form—both from lack of sleep and too much thinking. Fortunately, embarrassment wasn’t a word in her vocabulary.
“How is that pertinent, anyway? You emphasize how dark it was. You wouldn’t notice your nipples when Khastra’s tattoos are apparently ‘glowing with the same vibrancy as the moon.’”
Etolié finally looked up and saw how thin a line Sora’s lips had become.
“Besides, this is action-oriented. You don’t actually talk about your feelings.”
“Remember the part about breasts and tenderness—”
Sora ripped the parchment down the center. “Start over.”
“I need that.”
Sora opened the carriage door just enough to toss the papers onto the dirt outside. “Khastra knows what happened. She was there. Tell her something she doesn’t know.”
She offered a fresh sheet of parchment. Etolié accepted it, quill quivering in her hand. “You’re oddly supportive for being a bitch.”
Khastra,
But, try as she might, though she scrawled a few useless words, her emotions were locked behind a door she’d sealed years ago.
