Sword of the Gods: Agents of Ki (Sword of the Gods Saga)

by Anna Erishkigal

  Breathe. All you have to do is breathe.

  The warmth trembled against his torso. A weight. It covered his body like a shield, chanting the same thing over and over again.

  'Take me. Take me. Oh, great goddess. Please take me instead!'

  He took a breath, and remembered that he had a hand. Lift it. Yes. Lift his hand and touch the body which trembled against his chest, reminding his heart that it needed to beat. More sparks settled around him, whispering that he did not have to make this journey alone. Love. Softness. Hair. He laid his palm upon her head, surprisingly corporeal for a spirit which had come to travel with him into the next world.

  Mikhail opened his eyes.

  Radiating white light as though she wore a crown of stars, the black-eyed Seraphim stared back at him, her eyes glistening bright with tears.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Chapter 60

  December, 3,390 BC

  Earth: Village of Assur

  Gita

  Wrong. Her mother had been wrong! No divine gift had appeared to enable her to save him. Gita pressed her cheek against his chest, praying to hear his heart beat one more time.

  "Take me. Take me," she sobbed. "Oh, great goddess. Please take me instead!"

  She knew she had to get out of there, to cross Mikhail's hands in death and rush to the wall so she could cast herself into the river, but she could not bear to leave his body until it had grown cold. Through the window, sparks from the bonfire flew into the air like tiny stars. Outside, the villagers began to chant his name.

  "Mikhail! Mikhail! Mikhail!"

  His chest sat lifeless and still, no more heartbeats gracing the empty shell beneath her ear. Gita shut her eyes. Stop breathing. Just hold your breath until the life flows out of your body so you can die in his arms. She held her breath until her mind swam and the sound of their chanting began to recede.

  Something touched her hair and startled her

  The chest beneath her cheek shuddered, and then inhaled. Light from the bonfire shone into the window like a brilliant white beacon, illuminating her face, no longer disguised by the red cape for the first time since she had tended him. Mikhail's eyes slowly opened. Her dark eyes met his beautiful, unearthly blue ones.

  "Cén fáth a bhfuil tú ag gol, Chol Beag?"

  Mikhail reached up to cup her face in his hand.

  Gita blinked. Alive? He was still alive? How? She could not hear a heartbeat.

  "Tá sé agat?" Mikhail said. "Bhraith mé do fhoirceannadh bháis. Éadóchas orm riamh a aimsiú tú arís."

  His expression was puzzled, but also serene. Sometimes, just before death, the injured would awaken to tell their families that they loved them. Gita's lip trembled. Mikhail had awoken to say goodbye to Ninsianna and had found her there instead.

  "Ní le do thoil ná caoin."

  Gita wracked her brains. Le do thoil ... please. Ní. No. Please don't do ... something.

  He reached out to touch her tears.

  "Cry," Gita trembled. "Please don't cry." She cried all the harder. "How can I not cry when you are dying?"

  Mikhail gathered her in his arms and curled his wing around her to cover her like a blanket. Was he angry? She pressed her cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was still weak and erratic, his breathing labored. The only thing which had changed was he no longer seemed to be in pain. This was a temporary reprieve, a gift so she could say goodbye to him, nothing more.

  "Más rud é ach bhí fuair mé thú túisce," Mikhail said, "sula raibh mé ró-lag chun ár bpósadh."

  He wished ... he'd found her ... earlier? Before he'd grown too weak to do ... something? Gita sobbed. Did he understand she was a different person than Ninsianna? Or did he still think she was his wife? She touched his cheek, her lip trembling with sorrow.

  "I am not Ninsianna," Gita said, "but I will make this journey with you if you will let me?"

  Mikhail spoke to her a long dialogue.

  "Más rud é ach bhí mé fós láidir go leor grá a dhéanamh duit, bheadh sé a bheith agat mhaith liom a roghnú chun ceangal mo spiorad le haghaidh gach eternity, chol beag. bheadh sé tú ba mhaith liom a dhéanamh ar mo bhean chéile."

  She only knew a little of his language, but she had heard him cry out enough times to comprehend he wished her to make love to him one last time before he died. His lips touched hers. Love blended with sorrow at this kiss that she had always dreamed of.

  No! Wrong! This was wrong! But she responded, eager, hungry, desperate to intertwine her spirit with his so she would always carry with her the memory of what it had been like to love him. Mikhail thought she was Ninsianna. Would it be so wrong to let him think he died with his wife still in his arms?

  "Is féidir liom a bhraitheann tú," he whispered.

  "I can feel you, too," Gita said.

  She imagined her love for him poured through her fingers as she slid them through his crumpled wings and kissed his poor, savaged chest where the Evil One had stabbed him, the horrible, open wound which had devoured his flesh and turned it black. Everyplace she touched, she could feel him tremble with anticipation.

  "Déan grá dom," he pleaded. "Ba mhaith liom a bhraitheann tú mar a duillín mé as an saol seo ar an gceann eile."

  Make love to him. Yes. If he was to die, she would make his passage as sacred and as beautiful as she could. She stripped off her worn brown cape and tattered shawl-dress to reveal flesh that was far too pale and thin to fool him she was her curvaceous cousin.

  "Má mé bás i do armas," Mikhail's voice was hoarse with tears, "tá a fhios go raibh mo sliocht ceann áthas. Beidh mé ag fanacht le haghaidh tú díreach ach ar an taobh eile."

  He would die happy because she loved him.

  Blue eyes met her black eyes. Did Mikhail understand she was not his wife? He reached up and touched the corner of her eyes. Consort. Siamek had said he would bury her as his consort. Would he take her as thus? Second best? Gita's mouth trembled into a sorrowful smile. She would take any piece of him that he would give.

  She took his hand and placed it upon her breast.

  "Make love to me, Mikhail," Gita said. "Make love to me so that, no matter where you travel, you will always carry a piece of me inside your heart.

  He cupped her breast with his hand. They were small breasts, not lush and ripe like Ninsianna's, but some ancient part of him awoke, eager to consummate their union. As she had tended him, she had earned a place inside his heart, and he saw her. He saw her. It would be her he made love to, goddess willing, not the woman who had never given him the connection that he needed.

  Tiny sparks from the bonfire drifted in the wind and danced around the open window like spirits performing a dance for them.

  "Can dom, Chol Beag," Mikhail said. Sing for me. "Can, mar sin beidh mé a bheith i gcónaí in ann a fháil ar mo maité fíor amháin."

  He wished for her to make his heart sing.

  Gita slid her hand down to caress his manhood. Would he allow it? His manhood grew hard and firm beneath her touch. A shiver of ecstasy rippled through her body as he tangled his fingers in her hair and tugged her so her body covered his. He was too weak to make love to her. She would need to make love to him.

  She straddled her hips across his sunken abdomen, grown gaunt from six weeks without food, and slid her hips down until the entrance to her feminine mysteries caressed the tip of his manhood. To him, she sensed, this was a sacred act. Whether he understood she was real, not a spirit come to guide him into the next realm, this act would always bind their spirits together.

  "My mother once told me that the only thing you can carry across the void is the gift of eternal love," Gita said. Her small frame shook with sorrow. "I give to you the only gift I have."

  She held his gaze as she gently moved her hips backwards until she had taken all of him inside her most secret place. Mikhail's eyes fluttered backwards as he gave a satisfied sigh. She stretched forward, eager to have as much of her flesh as possible in touch his. A gurgle of pleasure escape
d his throat.

  “Cén fáth a bhfuil tú do ghrá a thabhairt dom?” he cried out. “Nuair a bheidh mé thug tú rud ar bith sa tuairisceán? An bhfuil tú ach aisling, mo leannán milis, chun treoir dom i aisling an t-am?”

  He touched her hips and thrust upwards. He wanted her. He wanted her. She imagined it was her he loved as she sat astride the beautiful winged creature she had fallen desperately in love with, and not her Chosen cousin. That Mikhail did not love her back, was not even aware she was not who he thought she was, was too weak to do much more than simply lay there as she had her way with him did not matter. All that mattered was the song in her heart, and her eagerness to sing it for him.

  Tiny white sparks from the solstice fire drifted in the window, eager for a catalyst, eager for a martyr to carry their wishes to the gods. The wishes of the people danced around her, pleading with her to give them back their hero, to save him, to give him back his life. Ecstasy uncoiled from the base of her spine and shuddered through her body. Mikhail cried out. She could feel him reach out to merge with her and she wanted it. She wanted him. She wanted him to live.

  She threw back her head and stared up at the universe which had opened up before her eyes. The sparks from the fire now danced on the branches of a great cosmic tree. The branches of the tree reached into the universe, and as they swayed, the universe sang a beautiful song; the Song of Creation, the song for which her mother had named her.

  Sing child. I wish for you to sing…

  Gita opened her mouth to give voice to the immortal song so Mikhail could hear it and never again fear the darkness, the song which lay on the other side of the void. It did not matter that he did not know her, could not love her, was tied to another woman and, as soon as this union ended she could never have him again. She wanted him to live!

  "Take me," she cried out to the goddess of her mother’s people. "Oh, great goddess, take me! And let Mikhail live in my stead!"

  Light poured into her body, giving her the strength of infinite lifesparks. Each life he had touched gave to her a little piece of itself, begging for her to help him, pleading with her to help him live. She no longer saw him as a mortal man, but a creature of light as she had just become. Their physical forms began to blur. Their energies intertwined as two hearts merged together into a single spirit that could survive any journey, even a trip across the emptiness of the void. Above them the stars raised their voices in a beautiful symphony of joy.

  "Mo shaol maité!"

  Mikhail threw back his head and surrendered to their union.

  Crying out with ecstasy, Gita shuddered as her orgasm washed over her like a wave. Light flowed out of her mouth and filled the room, but the song was not a mortal one, but the Song of Creation for which she had been named.

  The life energy of the universe hummed through her flesh as her love for him, combined with ecstasy, finally gave her access her latent gift.

  Mikhail lay beneath her, a beautiful, ravaged creature, trembling from the ecstasy of their union. Her eyes were drawn to his chest. She could see now the nature of the poison which fed upon his spirit and she understood what she needed to do to transmute it.

  "I want you to live," Gita whispered. "I want you to live no matter what the cost to me!"

  She pressed her lips to his horrific wound and inhaled.

  ~ * ~ * ~

  Chapter 61

  Galactic Standard Date: 152,323.12 AE

  Sata'an/Alliance Border: Jehoshaphat

  Supreme Commander-General Abaddon

  Abaddon

  It felt as though he floated in the current of a beautiful song, warm and cherished, and most of all he felt loved. There were no thoughts here, for thoughts were not necessary, only feeling. He could feel her calling to him, crying and grieving.

  'Don't cry, mo ghrá. Don't you understand that our love is immortal?'

  Abaddon stared up at the Eternal Tree, its branches heavy and bowed down with fruit. One branch bowed towards him, weighted by the mass of a small, brown bird which sang its own version of the song, more beautiful and sweet than even the Song of Creation. He recognized this song, for it was the song his heart sang every time he made love to his wife, and tears welled in his eyes, tears of sadness, tears of joy, for he knew that Sarvenaz had always been the one.

  Something jarred him.

  "Husband! Husband! Can you hear me?"

  The song grew louder. He opened his eyes and found her standing above him, her mahogany eyes filled with tears. At last, they were reunited. At last he was complete.

  "Sarvenaz," he whispered, breaking the spell. The Happy Bird disappeared, and in its place he stared into a flashlight someone shone into his eyes.

  "He's alive!" someone shouted. He didn't recognize the voice.

  The stench of cooked meat assailed his nostrils. He tried to move, but pain screamed through his body. It hurt! It hurt! A great gulf of darkness swallowed him alive. He drifted for a while, no longer hearing the song, but then there were voices, and the scent of burnt flesh and electricity.

  "Clear!"

  A jolt tore through his body and ripped him back into his pain.

  "Husband! Please!"

  He heard the anguish in her voice, and he wondered who had dared hurt the woman he loved. He fought to get to her, for all his life he had fought for causes far less worthy than his wife. He ignored the pain. He ignored the choking sensation in his lungs. He pushed back against the flesh that screamed as though it burned on fire. Only one thing mattered, to get back to Sarvenaz's side.

  "We have normal sinus rhythm."

  "Will he make it?"

  "I don't know how he's even still alive."

  Hands touched him, lips pressed against his. An obnoxious beeping filtered into his subconscious. Where was he? And why was he not snuggled next to his wife?

  He opened his eyes, his breaths jagged and painful.

  "Mo ghrá," he whispered.

  "Husband," Sarvenaz wept. "You must stay with me. I make deal with dragon to get you back!" She waggled her finger at him. "You no stay with me, I go live with him."

  Shadows moved around her. Other voices. Other people.

  "Don't touch him!"

  "He's badly burned, Ma'am."

  Touch. Oh, gods, how he craved her touch!

  He could see from the worry in her eyes that his injuries terrified her. She was brave about it; however, for Sarvenaz had always been brave. She looked past the burns to focus on his eyes and caressed the good side of his face, the side which had not been burned. He noted she was dressed in black widow's garb, and that her hair was no longer chestnut, but peppered by dozens of long, grey hairs.

  "Let me go, mo ghrá," he whispered. "For I am hideous, and you deserve a husband who is whole. I will wait for you, just but on the other side, and when we reuinite, I promise I will be beautiful for you to look upon once more."

  Sarvenaz shook her head.

  "You my husband," Sarvenaz wept. "Sarvenaz not let you go. No matter how badly you burned."

  Shadows moved around them. Other people. Doctors?

  "I'm going to give you something for the pain, General."

  There was a pinch, and then the pain grew duller. For a while he drifted, anchored only by her weeping and the feel of her hand in his. When he woke up again, he could feel the hum of the Jehoshaphat beneath his back, the vibration discordant, almost as badly wounded as he was. He was in his quarters, IV's stuck into his arm. He wore little except for the bandages they had used to cover his burns, and even his wings were splinted into traction, almost completely devoid of his hawk-grey feathers.

  Gentle fingers stroked his cheek, his belly and his thigh, the only places he wasn't badly burned. His heart grew fuller with every stroke, yearning to drink it up like an elixir, and despite his pain he grew aroused, for the first thing any mated pair sought to do after a period of separation was to reconnect using the only physical means granted to them here in the material realm.

  "Sarvenaz?"r />
  "Yes, Husband?"

  "You should have let me go."

  Sarvenaz shook her head, her lips trembling as she pushed back her black widow's headscarf and pressed her lips to his.

  "You alive, Husband. It the only thing that matter to me."

  His hunger for her touch hurt worse than the burns, and though he had no right to make such a request of a beautiful creature like his wife, him an old goat who was now no longer just scarred, but hideous and crippled, his yearning to reconnect with her had grown so great that it subsumed even the pain from Shay'tan's burns.

  "Make love to me?" Abaddon pleaded. "Make love to me one last time, so that if I die, I will die a happy man?"

  Sarvenaz sniffled.

  "You hurt," she said. "Doctor say must not touch until you heal. If I lay down with you, it make your hurts-hurt worse."

  His hand trembled as he fought to raise it so he could wipe away the moisture which glistened on her cheeks. Her tears soaked into his bandages, stinging his raw flesh with the salt of her pain.

  "The only thing which hurts mo ghrá is the prospect of being separated from you," Abaddon said.

  She stretched out carefully alongside him, taking care not to lean against the places where he was hurt, and kissed and caressed every place he was not burned. As she touched him, she reawakened the song he had caught a glimpse of as he'd lay dying in the cave. He closed his eyes and drank up the love which poured out of her fingers, understanding this was not a sexual act, but a spiritual one. As she led him towards climax and he felt their sprits intertwine, he caught once more a glimpse of the Eternal Tree. It swayed gently in the wind of the song which drifted through Eternity, its branches heavy with the fruit of infinite universes, each one swirling with galaxies, and stars, and countless planets which whorled around the spiral arms.

  "Ki," he whispered, for he understood at last what the Eternal Tree really was.