Blood of the Moon

by S D Simper

  “Khastra, please just—”

  But Khastra pulled her to her chest, her strong arms shielding her from the world. Lips brushed Etolié’s hair, as well as tears. “I am merely heartbroken that you were ever put in that position.”

  Etolié shattered, collapsing into sobs.

  Somewhere in her conscious mind, she felt Khastra lift her, cradling her as she was carried back to her nest. She felt familiar calluses soothe lines through her hair, smelled the grounding patchouli scent of her skin, and all the while wept as her mind expelled images she had not visited in over a decade. The tattoos of Khastra’s chest glowed as her cheek pressed against the familiar lines peeking above the collar of Khastra’s tunic, yet there was no temptation to trace them. Etolié sought only to vanish, and behind Khastra’s arms, she did so well enough.

  “I killed him,” she said between sobs, her voice quivering and broken. “I hardly remember anything. My memory stops the moment I said his name, but I remember his smell; I remember feeling him but feeling nothing at all. I remember the knife and counting the stab wounds—” She brought her hands up to cover her face, already hidden behind Khastra’s embrace. She swore the half-demon shook. “And then there I was, naked and soaked in blood. I didn’t even cry until . . . until my momma . . .”

  And there it was, in her memory—the final image of her momma, her gasping horror, her embrace as Etolié screamed in her arms.

  “I don’t regret it. I spent my entire life living in that monster’s shadow,” Etolié said, her voice shaking from sobs. “He destroyed my momma—she had nothing.” She wept into her hands, which Khastra gently stole, her glowing eyes replacing the hateful sights in Etolié’s head. “I only exist because her life was ruined.”

  “Did she tell you that?”

  Startled at the words and Khastra’s dark tone, Etolié stammered a shaky, “N-No. But sometimes you just know.”

  Sometimes, someone else tells you for her.

  “You carry so much shame, Etolié.” The darkness in Khastra’s tone had receded, leaving only words as soft as the fingers in Etolié’s hair. Her eyes glistened, yet her gaze never wavered. “I am so sorry you thought you must keep this a secret from me.”

  “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,” she whispered. “You are not ruined. You survived.”

  The words screamed in stark dissonance to Etolié’s thoughts, yet they were spoken by the woman who never lied.

  Etolié clung to Khastra’s neck, hiding her face against the half-demon’s chest as she sobbed. Yet, it felt like a release, the pain steadily ebbing with each tear trailing down her face.

  Khastra loved her still. Etolié felt a great burden lift from her shoulders—perhaps taken on by the half-demon herself.

  As the pain settled, so did her cries, and soon enough she laid as an exhausted heap against Khastra’s chest, eyes surely swollen and red. When she sniffed and looked up to face her companion, she saw that Khastra’s own tears had also abated, though evidence still remained in the glistening lines on her face. So strange, to see Khastra’s tears. She realized she never had before.

  “Look at you,” Khastra whispered, depthless adoration in her smile. “Look at all you have done. You have saved countless lives and become the magister of a kingdom full of people willing to murder assassins on the street for you.” Khastra smiled, though her lip quivered. “There is an elven children’s tale that says we are all pottery in a kiln, fired by the hardships we face. Your father does not define you, but his influence does remain. I cannot fathom the hell you lived as a child, but I know it made you strong, nor can I comprehend the pain of having to hold your mother through her own, but it gave you a heart that weeps for the downtrodden. Look at you, Etolié—you emerged from the fire as something beautiful.”

  Etolié wept again, but not for shame.

  “Celestière is wrong to condemn you. I would say that to Sol Kareena herself.”

  “None of them know the whole truth,” Etolié said, her gasping breath more of a hiccup. “They know I murdered him. No one knows why or how, except Sol Kareena, my judge and jury. Eionei only knows I killed him—he walked in on Momma and I trying to clean it up. And I don’t know what Momma thinks happened. That was the last time I saw her.”

  “You have not seen her since?”

  Behind the shield of Khastra’s arms, Etolié shook her head. “She needs to heal without me. That’s what Eionei said.”

  There was pain behind the disbelief in Khastra’s eyes. “As a mother, I cannot fathom telling my child to stay away.”

  Etolié said nothing to that.

  “This does not change anything,” Khastra whispered, her lips brushing Etolié’s hair. “I love you, Etolié; as much as I did before. It hurts me to see you clinging so tight to your shame, and if I can ever help to ease your burden, let me. Would you ever consider speaking to a priest or priestess? Many acolytes of Sol Kareena are trained to help ease emotional burdens, better than I could.”

  Etolié shook her head. “Someday, maybe. Not today. This is a lot, you know?”

  “I understand,” Khastra said, her fingers returning to Etolié’s hair.

  “To answer your next question,” Etolié added, remiss to admit it, but it had to be said, “the men who tried to kill me were friends of Camdral. I recognized a few of them. So I don’t know if I’m safe or if there’re still more coming. If you told Eionei, I think he’ll do what he can to fix it up there, though.”

  “As he should.”

  “He always thought Camdral was scum, so even though he never quite knew why I did it, I think he assumed I had a good reason.” Her laugh was genuine, poignant after so many tears. “He never knew the extent of what was happening to mom—not until after. But whatever his faults, I’m grateful to him. He’s my only link to home.”

  “Then I shall try to be more polite to him, next time he and I speak.” Khastra’s smile was endlessly soft, and Etolié’s heart soared to know it was for her. “Do you need to speak more of this? I would like you to sleep, but I understand if the burden of the day is too much.”

  Etolié’s head fell back against Khastra’s chest. “I’d like to talk about other things. Then I’ll have a fighting chance at sleep.”

  Khastra’s tale of ancient Solvira captivated Etolié’s manic mind, her voice soothing and assured. Every word she spoke slowly opened Etolié’s sealed heart. She loved Etolié still.

  And Khastra’s opinion had always been the only one that mattered in the end.

  About the author:

  S D Simper has lived in both the hottest place on earth and the coldest, spans the employment spectrum from theatre teacher to professional editor, and plays more instruments than can be counted on one hand. She and her beloved wife share a home with their two cats and innumerable bookshelves.

  Visit her website at sdsimper.com to see her other works, including Carmilla and Laura, a retelling of the classic vampire tale.