Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  The room was expansive, meant for far more than two people. Etolié settled in her own private suite, content to be alone after a week spent sharing a carriage with Sora.

  She bathed. She ate, and the hole in her stomach slowly filled, even if she picked at the food with the enthusiasm of a bloated bird.

  Khastra thought she was beautiful. Etolié still contemplated that.

  Introspection hurt, manifesting in tears as she reread her letter, signed with an ominous black heart and bearing words foreign to her own mind.

  “There is no heavier burden than a secret, Etolié. To speak of it will set you free.”

  And Etolié, for the first time in years, let herself think authentically of a crime plaguing her guilty conscience. Khastra knew everything. Khastra alone carried the burdens of Etolié’s heart.

  A new truth fell into place among the jagged pieces of her life—that, perhaps, to love Khastra as an equal, she had to free her of that.

  Steeling herself, she set the letter aside and left her private room. She knocked on Sora’s door, heard an affirming, “Come in,” from within, and opened the door.

  The half-elf wore clean clothes, her hair slightly damp. She sat on her bed, smiling expectantly. “Etolié?

  Etolié lingered in the doorway. “You love nosey stories about the gods of Celestière. Want one more?”

  “You know I won’t say no.”

  Etolié was a storyteller by nature, years of entertaining masses of people coming as naturally to her as breathing; on a smaller scale, a little Celestial princess named Lara had loved her talent for illustrating tales of grandeur with glitter and illusionary figures.

  Etolié braced herself and summoned an image she was shy to gaze upon—her own momma, wings and all, though stylized like a galaxy, the domain she once ruled. “Once upon a time, there was a Goddess of Stars in the world of angels, and her life was ruined. Her wife and daughter were stolen from her, leaving her with nothing. The world moved on, thinking she’d died. I guess she had, in a way.”

  The figure silently wept upon the floor—Sora watched it as Etolié continued her words. “One day, a man came to her and said he could take away her pain.” A second figure appeared, one bearing no wings as he stood above the sobbing supplicant. “He was Camdral, Son of Eionei, and he had unparalleled knowledge of plants and their properties; with magic, he could dilute and strengthen them to his will. They could soothe panic, heal sorrow . . . even create false realities in the user’s mind. The Goddess of Stars had nothing, and so she said yes.”

  The figures faded into formless masses, sparkling as they disappeared. “He didn’t want money,” Etolié whispered. “He only wanted her. She was addicted to what he gave and couldn’t leave. Even when he beat her. Even when he raped her.”

  The silence lingered; Etolié’s lip trembled as a new set of figures appeared—the Goddess of Stars holding an infant with wings as magnificent as her momma’s. “The inevitable happened. The Goddess of Stars bore his child. She was a difficult little thing—wouldn’t talk for years, would scream if you touched her. All she wanted to do was sit in the corner and summon illusionary glitter and watch it sparkle. But her momma did her best.”

  The image changed. The child had grown—six years old, Etolié knew, and daring to stand between the Goddess of Stars and the beast she called father. She screamed in silence, until the Goddess clung to her instead, shielding her from the monster. “She was a courageous little shit who tried to defend the undefendable. She spent her entire childhood in the shadow of a monster she couldn’t fight.”

  The Goddess disappeared. The child grew—fourteen now, and Etolié realized her own eyes had misted. “The man largely ignored her, but it didn’t matter. There’s only so much shit a girl can see before she loses her mind.” The girl composed of stardust held a knife behind her back as she approached the man. He drank from a glittering flask.

  She kissed him.

  Etolié took artistic liberties to skip the rest; her body still numbed to think of it. Instead, the illusionary girl stabbed the man—he exploded into a sea of stars.

  The girl simply . . . faded away.

  “She confessed her crime to the Goddess of Light, who had no choice but to condemn her. The girl was guilty. Sol Kareena offered to let her run away. She would be a fugitive of Celestière forevermore, but she would be free.”

  Etolié sought judgement in Sora’s face, but instead saw the same sorrow in the half-elf’s countenance that she’d seen on Khastra’s. Sixteen years ago, in the first few years of Staelash, Khastra had found out her darkest truth and loved her just the same.

  “I just don’t understand how you can’t see me as disgusting. What kind of sick fuck seduces her drunk father—”

  “You were a child, Etolié. He raped you, but I do not think you see that.” Khastra’s eyes seemed larger when filled with tears, the first of which trailed the elegant lines of her face. “You were powerless, because he stole that power. You used the only weapon you thought you had—”

  Khastra’s voice broke. The great half-demon wept as she clung to Etolié’s form. “You are not disgusting,” Khastra whispered. “You are not ruined. You survived.”

  Every secret shame Etolié clung to, Khastra had gently pulled away and replaced with devotion and love.

  “She never saw her momma again,” Etolié whispered, the image of the Goddess of Stars reforming before them. “The Goddess of Stars is finally healing, but needs to do so on her own. That’s what . . .” Etolié sighed. The image vanished. “That’s what Eionei said. To me. I’m the—”

  “I know. You made that clear.” Etolié forced a smile as Sora approached. “So anytime you’ve mentioned your mother—”

  “I’ve been lying about having a relationship with my momma for thirty-four years, yes,” Etolié said, vomiting the words like a riotous night gone wrong. Time flowed differently in Celestière, and so she’d had far longer to heal than Staella, as well as the mortal resilience to accept the need to do so, but . . . .

  Though she barely noticed the pain in her chest anymore, sometimes little things would twist the knife.

  Sora approached, a kind smile on her full lips. “You hate hugs, but could I squeeze your hand or something?”

  Etolié’s countenance softened as she offered her hand, touched when Sora lightly squeezed.

  “Thank you for sharing.”

  “You’re thanking me for discussing child rape?”

  “No. But it does explain a lot about you.”

  Etolié frowned at that. “I give off the aura of ‘rape victim?’”

  Sora quickly shook her head. “No, but you’re the defender of the undefendable, like you said. You spent your childhood protecting your mother, and then you spent years freeing slaves. The shit that happened helped make you the hero you are today.”

  That was . . . really kind, actually. “Thanks,” was all Etolié could muster, her soul oddly light despite the weighted words. “So . . . do you want to get drunk?”

  Sora nodded.

  They spent hours giggling like madmen in the public area of the suite, jesting of Staelash, of the wedding, and Etolié felt, for the first time in too long, a feeling of comradery.

  A wonderful thing, to have a friend.

  * * *

  Flowridia returned to her room to find Demitri stretched lazily across the floor. Ana bounded up; Flowridia took the affectionate little fox into her arms. “Where did you sleep last night?”

  In the hallway. Lara let me in when she left this morning.

  Realization struck her, and just a bit of guilt with it. “Did no one let you in before that?”

  I wouldn’t let them. The floor is the floor wherever you sleep. I don’t care. But I do care about intruding on naked time with your good friend Lara.

  “Dearest Demitri, I will smack you if you ever use that phrase again.”

  Were Demitri capable of laughter, Flowridia knew this would be the time. He stretched an
d yawned instead. What I do need is some breakfast.

  He plucked her food trunk from the floor and stuck his nose in, withdrawing raw meat. She grimaced when it touched the fine carpet. “Demitri, that’s disgusting.”

  Someone’s paid to clean up, and it isn’t me.

  Flowridia curled her lip in disgust as he ate. “Well, when you’re done being a pig, come and explore with me. I need to keep myself busy.”

  Instead of thinking about Lara?

  “I’d rather not talk about Lara, Demitri.”

  For once, he listened.

  Soon, Flowridia and Demitri, with Ana bouncing behind like an excitable puppy, left their generous quarters, and she asked for directions to a library, unprepared for the gargantuan collection of books she stumbled upon.

  Nox’Kartha’s library had been an ever-expanding collection of knowledge, limitless and unraveling as you walked; the Solviran library displayed all its magnificence at the door, with walls a hundred feet high stocked with books, and small magical lifts to help one navigate. It extended below, the middle hollow and surrounded by an ornately carved barrier, the bottom depthless to Flowridia’s eyes. She stared down from the wide balcony, her mouth agape.

  It smelled of ancient history, lit by enormous, narrow windows lining the walls from floor to ceiling and globes of light that danced about and followed the patrons—odd, but unquestionably useful when night would fall.

  But this place was more than a collection of books—it harbored priceless history, with doors branching out into rooms and staircases filled with relics. Within one, she found an entire dragon skeleton, strung up anatomically from the ceiling, and upon the floor, displayed on pedestals, were pieces of a second.

  It was beautiful and alarming both, for Flowridia remembered Valeuron’s vision where she saw two behemoths fall to silver flame.

  New goal.

  Surprised at the words, Flowridia gazed oddly at Demitri. “I beg your pardon?”

  That’s how big I’ll be.

  “Follow your dreams, my darling Demitri.”

  Evening fell by the time she entered a room filled with ancient art.

  She recognized the depictions of gods, knowing one small statue as Sol Kareena, and another as a magnificent painting of Eionei, with his coy smirk and rapier, facing a fearsome man, disfigured from brutal scars—perhaps he had been burned? The plaque named him as Morathma, Jewel of the Desert.

  But the grandest of all stood at the far wall. Within the great hall, Flowridia stopped before the splendid mural, marveling at the spectacular image.

  Three gargantuan figures, painted nearly from the floor to the ceiling, stood upon pedestals, each with their own unique pose and features. Standing tallest of the trio, a woman with onyx hair and a gaze as withering as disease surveyed the scene. Silver fire rose at her feet, gently caressing her skin, and power radiated from her stance and poise. She was an angel, with wings as silver as the moon’s light and a crown to match.

  So this was Neoma. Flowridia knew it in her heart.

  Beside her, her hands clutching one of the Moon Goddess’, a woman with a gentler stance gazed up in adoration. Her hair was as radiant and silver as the stars, and Flowridia knew her—knew her translucent wings and darling, upturned nose. This was Staella, the Goddess of Stars and Etolié’s mother.

  Staella still lived, though she had shut herself away.

  But the final looked away from the pair, pride in the sneer of her full lips. She was beautiful in the way of storms and volcanoes and other great calamities—glorious to behold, yet to come too close would mean an assured death. She wielded fire—silver at her feet, and purple smoke in her hand—while her other held a staff topped by what Flowridia swore must have been a De’Sindai skull.

  Ilune, the Great Necromancer. The God of Death.

  This was Solvira’s legacy.

  “Magnificent, isn’t it?”

  Flowridia’s breath caught at the words, loud in the stark silence. Lara approached, and Flowridia watched her regal stance, for though she was gentle, she walked with power.

  There stood a distant resemblance between she and the goddesses depicted. Lara’s bloodline remained potent, dangerously so. But she had inherited Staella’s gentle stance and eyes, instead of her more tyrannical counterparts.

  “It’s stunning,” Flowridia replied as she looked back to the mural. “I’m surprised this is here. Your people no longer worship the Triage.”

  “My people thought the Triage were all dead for a thousand years. It’s only because of Etolié’s appearance in our realm that anyone knew Staella was still alive. Did she tell you that?”

  Flowridia shook her head, gazing upon the supplicant goddess. How beautiful she was, with her tender countenance, her eyes shining with light.

  “There’s been a small movement in recent years, a resurgence in her worship. Though most have moved on to Sol Kareena, my people still remember their founding goddesses. The Triage was known for balance—they say Neoma stood at the head while the others would whisper in her ears to sway her. Neoma was Justice, pure and callused. Ilune was Power, chaotic in her mastery of death. Staella was Mercy, and so became the patron deity for children and the downtrodden. And while I don’t believe Solvira will quickly move beyond its reputation for tyranny, Staella’s worship has increased. I’m shy to admit it, but I may have started it.”

  “You’re pledged to Staella?” Flowridia asked, surprised at the words.

  Lara nodded. “It’s Etolié’s fault. She’s the Daughter of Stars. As a little princess, I practically worshipped her, so when I learned who her mother was, I studied all I could. During my adolescent years , I helmed the restoration of an ancient temple in her name. I go once a week, at least, to try and commune. The goddesses used to manifest in the temples—I would love so dearly to renew that tradition.” A shy smile appeared on Lara’s lip, reminiscence in her gaze. “As a little girl, I would dream of her. Some say Staella would commune with her followers through dreams; I don’t know if it were that or merely my imagination, but they are memories I cherish, even now.”

  Lara beckoned, and Flowridia followed as she escorted her to the next of the many pieces of art. “‘Staella’s Mercy,’” she read aloud, and the painting depicted the gentle goddess embracing a weeping supplicant .

  “Are the angels humanoid, then?” Flowridia asked, realizing she truly didn’t know. “Or is it a mortal interpretation?”

  “Yes, and no. They’re beings of light, but they still hold substance, and some say they resemble humans with wings.”

  Lara brought her to the next painting, a depiction of embracing lovers—Neoma and Staella. “Staella was the only temperance Neoma had, or so they say. The Moon Goddess was known to be brutish, cruel at times, and she was largely at odds with the other gods—including her sister, Sol Kareena. But she loved and adored Staella with all her heart. Staella made her . . . softer.”

  “I think that’s wonderful,” Flowridia said, wistful at the thought. For she knew a brutish, cruel woman, loved her with all her soul, and knew what it meant to be cherished by someone as tempestuous as the sea.

  Guilt rose in her heart to think of Ayla here and now. Instead of dwelling, Flowridia looked back to the trio of goddesses. Lara said, “Most depictions of the God of Death were destroyed after the Civil War. This mural is one of the last.”

  “Why does Ilune hold a masculine title?”

  To her surprise, Lara laughed. “Forgive me—it’s technically slander, but reclaimed slander, by Ilune herself. Legend says Morathma sought to defame Ilune at every turn, deeming her conception unnatural and so despised all she was. Ilune was rather infamously involved with men and women both, like most angels, but he referred to her as the ‘God of Death’ as a means to insult her and her relationships with women of every species. Many details of Ilune’s life are lost with time, but apparently she laughed in his face and wore the insult like a badge of honor, deemed herself the God of Death, and dared the
world to call her anything else.”

  Flowridia grinned at the story, finding that level of spite rather inspirational. “So it is true, then? Neoma created Ilune with the Silver Fire?”

  Lara nodded, visibly wistful at the words. “The Silver Fire created her, with Staella’s womb to carry her. All the books say it, and if you ask Khastra, she’ll confirm it as well. She’s more valuable than ancient texts.”

  Flowridia gazed up at the embracing lovers, wondering if, perhaps, Staella might be a goddess she could pledge to as well.

  Lara said, “I’m sorry I left you alone. Have you spent all day in here?”

  “Yes, but we’ve had a wonderful time.”

  Lara pointed at the skeletal creature smacking her tail against the stone floor. “I didn’t see her last night.”

  “I keep her in my bag when I ride Demitri,” Flowridia replied, kneeling beside Ana. “When I tell her to sit, she stays, but I felt too guilty to leave her behind.” She kissed the skull and beamed, giggling when Ana rolled over on her back. Her fingers stroked against her ribcage.

  “She has so much life in her, Flowridia.”

  When Flowridia looked up, the warmth in Lara’s eyes conveyed something maternal. The thought burned her, even more when Lara moved to kneel beside them.

  “May I touch her?”

  Flowridia nodded, and Lara brought her hand down to caress Ana’s face. Ana nipped at the offered finger with affection, and Flowridia removed her own hand, watching Lara as she laughed at Ana’s antics. “She’s a marvel. If all undead creatures were as charming as she, I think they’d make fine pets.”

  “Most don’t have this much personality,” Flowridia said, watching as Lara lifted Ana into her arms. “Not my intention, when I raised her. I impressed Casvir, though.”

  “The spellwork holding her together is so intricate.” Ana lay cradled in Lara’s arms, and she cooed over her like an infant. “I’m impressed, too. To be able to hit with precision is better than to hit with power.”