The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  “Whatever lies she’s told you,” Thalmus continued, “you didn’t deserve this. Stay away from her.”

  With a wince, Flowridia slowly sat up, clutching the sheet to preserve her modesty. “I really hurt her.”

  “And from the looks of it, she threw you across the room.”

  Flowridia shut her eyes, unsure of what she could say. “I’ll beg for her forgiveness-”

  “You will not!”

  Flowridia shrunk at the rage in Thalmus’ voice.

  “She’s a monster. You’re a child. She shouldn’t be toying with you, much less having her way with you. And not this; definitely not this-” Thalmus quickly shut his mouth, visibly combating his emotions. “My little flower girl,” he said, subdued. “I love you. Please, be careful.”

  What could she say or do, other than simply nod and try to not shed her own tears?

  He stood, too quickly, and said, “If you need anything more from me, I’ll be in my room.” Thalmus stepped out, a tumultuous storm threatening to break.

  The door shut. In the corner, barely visible in the shadow, stood Ayla. She watched, hair styled to cover what Flowridia knew was a gruesome sight.

  Etolié, oblivious to the ominous presence in the corner, whispered, “He isn’t wrong-”

  “I need sleep,” Flowridia said, staring directly at the shadowed figure. “We can talk tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure? You don’t have to be alone. I can set up some pillows in the library.” Concern bled into every word, but the threat of exacerbating Ayla’s wrath caused Flowridia to shake her head. “Flowers, please-”

  “I’ll send Demitri if I need you.”

  Etolié helped her to stand. No pain in the movements – her body had healed anew; not even bruises lined her wrists. “I’ll be awake,” the Celestial said.

  Once Etolié had disappeared behind the shut door, Ayla stepped out from her dark corner. She glared viciously, expectantly, eyebrow raised as she watched Flowridia sink slowly to her knees before her.

  Flowridia let the sheet drop, her form naked and pitiful as she clutched her hands together against her chest, keeping her stare to the floor. “I’m sorry,” she mouthed. “I didn’t know-”

  “Look at me!”

  Flowridia’s gaze shot up, breath hitching at the enmity etched into Ayla’s features, the ice in her blue eyes. She flinched when Ayla brushed aside her hair, revealing charred, ruined skin. “I didn’t know,” Flowridia said, this time managing to vocalize her words. “I’m sorry.”

  Ayla’s pointed glare sliced through her already shattered resolve. Flowridia withered, crumbling to the ground and clinging to Ayla’s skirt. Fresh sobs shook her form.

  “I think, in time, I will be able to forgive you,” Ayla said, her voice as smooth and cutting as a knife. “All things heal, Flowra. Wounds. Grudges. Trust.” When Flowridia dared to look up, she swore she saw fangs behind that cruel and much-too-wide grin. “But you’ll have to prove your sincerity.”

  Flowridia gave a tentative nod. “What can I do?”

  Ayla opened her mouth to speak, but stopped, lips pursing. Coyly, she said, “You’re the one bargaining. Once you’ve thought of an offer, do let me know.”

  She extended a hand, and Flowridia accepted, allowing Ayla to help her to stand. Flowridia stepped forward to offer an embrace, but were Ayla a cat capable of hissing, Flowridia had no doubt she would have – with how she flinched, how she bared her fangs.

  Flowridia stumbled back, shaking as she clung to the frame of her four-poster bed.

  But Ayla’s countenance softened, a forced smile spreading across her face. “Flowra, I don’t often give second chances,” she cooed, sanguine sweetness chilling Flowridia’s blood. “Take this gift, that of your continued life, and know it means I care.”

  Flowridia flinched when Ayla’s face suddenly appeared only inches from her own.

  “You are grateful, right?”

  Flowridia didn’t presume to imagine the threat behind the innocuous question. “Yes.”

  “Say it.”

  Flowridia recalled a lesson taught from Aura long ago – that when faced with a predator to show no fear, to poise your body tall and broad, to match their stare and bare your teeth and scream . . . and pray they walked away.

  But Ayla was no hungry lion, satiated by flesh. Flowridia cowered, finding neither woman nor beast in those vibrant blue eyes, but something far more sinister. “I’m grateful you’ve given me this second chance,” she said softly, bracing herself for Ayla to strike.

  Ayla did attack, but in slow and gentle blows. A hand caressed Flowridia’s face, cold and soothing, and Ayla planted a tender kiss on her cheek. Her whisper was soft, a breeze through a shadowed night: “Good girl.”

  The touch vanished. When Flowridia opened her eyes again, she realized she was alone, save for Demitri watching from the corner.

  The little wolf ran to her side, standing on his hind legs as he pawed at her thigh. She lifted him into her arms and hid her face, thick droplets of tears soaking his soft fur.

  Are you still hurt?

  Truly, she was not. Healing magic had purged her body of even the most superficial of wounds. There were no marks on her neck, nor her thighs or her breasts.

  Her hair snagged the bedpost. From the thick, dark locks, she withdrew a shriveled flower, the magic once within expended in protecting her.

  Flowridia shook her head. “No, dearest Demitri. But I’m afraid.”

  He curled into her side as she tried to sleep, soothed at the contact of his fur.

  She bore no wounds, but, oh, she ached. Ayla had consumed something far more vulnerable than her body, leaving a gaping, bleeding hole in her chest.

  * * *

  “Salvage what you can, Flower Child.”

  Flowridia peeked around the doorframe, maintaining careful eye contact with the nude woman straddling the dead man beside a pool of blood and entrails.

  Mother stood, a bit of dizziness in her step, but Flowridia clung to the damp wood, careful to avoid brushing against splatters of fungal life.

  “I need to clean up.”

  Worry filled Flowridia as she watched her mother’s stumbling steps, but the woman disappeared behind the bedroom door. Flowridia held her breath as she knelt before the dead figure on the floor. The knife in her hand reflected the phosphorescent light, glinting in shades of blue and green as it split a thin line at the victim’s torso. The half-nude man – they were always men, or young girls; ones Mother deemed unfit for her lineage – lay crumpled on the floor, freshly dead from a head wound. Mother’s carving knife still rested on the ground, sticky with brain-matter.

  Most organs were useless for spellwork, instead destined for Mother’s kitchen, but hearts and lungs were valuable, as were eyes and tongues.

  The man’s green eyes were marred, glassy, blood from his head having stained the white. When Flowridia plucked it out, she panicked at the blood dyeing the gelatinous substance. Mother would be livid, her doing or not. Imperfect ingredients meant imperfect spells.

  An idea, something creative and dangerous, stopped Flowridia’s work. Instead, she held the eye in the palm of her hand, releasing a healing spell and letting it trace across her fingertips. Her palm glowed, but nothing changed. Frowning, Flowridia poured more energy into-

  “What are you-?”

  Startled, Flowridia’s fist clenched, and she gasped when viscous slime oozed from between her fingers. She turned, only to cry out when her hair nearly tore from her head. With Mother’s grip tight in her hair, Flowridia whimpered as she pled. “I didn’t mean to. I’m sorry-”

  “Look at me when I speak to you!”

  Flowridia clutched the hand at her hair, daring to make eye contact with the furious woman, now dressed in a loose robe.

  “You can’t heal what’s already dead!” Mother threw her down. Flowridia’s hands landed in gore. Blood from the floor seeped into her hair and clothing.

  Beside her, Mother knelt,
inspecting the corpse. She wiped a speck of the ruined eyes from the floor, emulsified under Flowridia’s startled grasp. “What was salvageable is ruined. To your room!” Flowridia stood, stumbling as Mother cried, “I’ll fetch you when I can stand to look at you!”

  Flowridia wept nearly all night, blood and tears staining her pillow.

  Restless sleep meant an early morning. Flowridia awoke before dawn. Her eyes fluttered open, gentler than butterfly wings, and landed on a deep, red rose lying at the center of the table.

  Flowridia sat up, head growing light, but not from wakefulness. She trembled as she reached to grab the thorny, delicate flower, mindful to not jostle Demitri. Suspicious of an enchantment or some sort of trick, she inspected the gift, hoping something might explain this offering. Her eyes narrowed, senses expanding as she searched for any trace of magic.

  Nothing. Only a plain rose.

  Velvet, fresh, and utterly flawless, when Flowridia brought it to her nose, she sniffed, savoring the sweet sensation. With the release of breath came relief.

  Paws against her legs drew her attention. Did Ayla come back?

  “It looks like it.” But what it meant, she could not say.

  Why didn’t she say hello?

  Flowridia said, “She might still be angry,” and left it at that. Love, or whatever addictive counterfeit Ayla offered, held a high price. But Demitri was young, and Flowridia hoped he would keep his innocent view of the world.

  But she said she could forgive you.

  “And this is her way of showing she still cares.”

  Flowridia placed the rose back onto the table and stood from her bed. She realized all of the candles had vanished. Thoughtful of Ayla, to clean up.

  Before donning her clothing, she draped the ear around her neck and let it settle at her sternum.

  I didn’t even smell her. Flowridia turned around, focusing on the small form wagging his tail at her feet.

  Ayla had appeared in the shadow of the door and held the talent to vanish at will in darkness. For her to have left a gift and no other trace seemed well within her capabilities. What sort of creature was Ayla? The books had said nothing about vampires travelling through shadow.

  Ayla herself had said she was something different.

  “Come walk with me,” Flowridia said. “I’d like to clear my head before the world awakens.”

  Demitri followed closely at her heels. She twirled the rose in her hand, wondering how wise it was to let relief overshadow the fear and guilt lurking behind her stolen heart.

  In her early morning wandering, she found herself outside, the crisp air startling to her skin. Damp grass kissed her bare feet. Sunlight burst in brilliant beams over the horizon. Flowridia shut her eyes, breathing in the warm sun as it touched her face and hair.

  The garden came into view, but the entrance to Thalmus’ kiln stood a few hundred feet across. She saw Thalmus himself standing by the wall, leaning quietly against it.

  Every morning, he watched the sunrise.

  But from the bags beneath his eyes, she wondered if he had slept. Thalmus turned at her approach, relief in his smile as he moved to close the distance. Before Flowridia could even speak, Thalmus scooped her up and engulfed her in a hug.

  Though nearly three feet off the ground, Flowridia felt safety in the embrace of the hulking half-giant.

  “Did you sleep?” he asked, soothing and soft.

  “A little.”

  Thalmus set her back onto the ground. “You should be resting.”

  “I’m fine, Thalmus. There’s nothing to worry . . .” Her voice faded in tandem with his smile. He stared not at her, but at the rose in her hand.

  “She came back,” he said, something ominous in the deep rumble, like a volcano threatening to blow.

  “It was on my bedside table when I awoke.”

  “Flowra, we’re calling a meeting.” Flowridia felt tension in his grip on her arm, his curtailed strength as he pulled her along. “We’re banning her from Staelash, diplomat or not. Casvir can send another.”

  “Thalmus, stop!” Flowridia yanked her arm back; Thalmus released her, anger in his narrowed eyes. “I don’t care that she came back. She isn’t going to hurt me, and I don’t want to cause any international incidents.”

  “She committed a crime against a member of our ruling council. That more than warrants-”

  “What crime?!” Flowridia yelled, anger quickly bubbling over. “It wasn’t the first time we’d had sex, Thalmus. I liked it. I wanted it.”

  “You wanted her to leave you bruised and battered?”

  “She reacted because I burned her face! Would you have done any different?”

  Thalmus’ voice suddenly bellowed. “A mistake doesn’t warrant her beating you to a pulp! If she’s done it once, she’ll do it again. Flowra-” He stopped himself, gritting his teeth as he continued, more subdued. “I searched the castle. If I’d found her, I would have killed her.”

  Wide-eyed, Flowridia clutched the rose to her chest. “Thalmus, you don’t mean that-”

  “She raped and beat my little flower girl.” A pause; his jaw quivered. “Would you have done any different?”

  “That’s not what happened,” Flowridia pled. “She broke my arm when she threw me across the room, yes, but all the bruises were-” She hesitated, uncomfortable giving details of her affair, but swallowed her embarrassment. “The bruising was consensual. Like I said, it wasn’t the first time we’d slept together.”

  Unwilling to meet his eyes, Flowridia’s gaze wandered Thalmus’ form, acutely aware of the mass of scars covering his skin. His hands moved to clasp each other, knuckles nearly white despite the dark hue, and when Flowridia dared to look back up, she saw that tears welled in his eyes.

  “If I could fall on my knees and beg you not to see her, I would.” Instead, when Thalmus fell to his knees, he pulled her into a hug. He shook, his soft crying drawing tears from her own eyes as well. “I know the shame-” His voice stopped abruptly, as though hitting a wall. Perhaps the same wall, so carefully constructed, that protected him against the history of violence written across his skin. She felt him stiffen and shake, felt him tear a rip into those guarded layers. “I know the shame of abuse and the agony it brings,” he whispered, each word forcibly torn from his unwilling, broken voice. “It’s a burden I carry years later, and if I can spare you any pain, if I can fight for you, please, let me.”

  Flowridia let her arms snake from her chest to try and properly embrace her enormous companion. She had no words. She had no response, other than to not further harm the gentle man before her, delicate and raw despite his inherent strength.

  “If you insist on carrying on . . .” Thalmus’ hold grew tighter, protective. “If she returns, will you tell me?”

  The question lingered, and Flowridia couldn’t help the pit that welled in her stomach. She simply nodded, unsure of her own honesty.

  “If Ayla can appear uninvited in your room, the entire castle is under threat. This is about more than last night, Flowra.” Thalmus kept his embrace but pulled away enough to face her. “I hope she brings you joy. I hope she cherishes your heart and treats you like a queen because it’s nothing less than you deserve.” One hand left her back and gently stroked against her hair. Flowridia reached up and grabbed the back of his hand, leaning into the tender gesture. “I also hope you’ll come to me, or Etolié, Marielle – someone – if anything like this happens again. Please.”

  Flowridia nodded yet again, more confident in her honesty.

  “You’re gentle. You’re kind. Don’t let her change that.” He released a deep, pained breath. “I wish you wouldn’t see her at all.”

  When Thalmus’ grip grew slack, she pulled away, eyes wide and watery, and said, “May I stay by you today? I could find a book and keep you company.”

  Thalmus smiled and nodded.

  The grass bent under Flowridia’s light steps as she returned to the manor, the rose steadily twirling in her hand as
she contemplated Thalmus’ words. All of these promises she couldn’t keep, yet the prospect of disappointing Thalmus lacerated her bruised heart.

  She and Demitri made their way down the stairs and through the hall, when an irreverent voice shattered the peaceful morning.

  “I’m not going to suck Sol Kareena’s dick to appease you!”

  No one blasphemed as freely as Etolié. The words echoed off the ceiling and through the hallway. Flowridia lifted Demitri into her arms and increased her pace, curious to know the cause of the altercation. Whatever reply she heard was merely a mumble next to the irreverent Celestial.

  “Don’t you talk to her! She’s a child. Benevolent goddess or not, Sol Kareena won’t be coercing any-!”

  Flowridia crept inside and peered around the shelves to see the source of Etolié’s rage. Meira stood tall and firm, only a raised eyebrow in response to Etolié’s shouting. Sora stood behind her, glancing at Flowridia despite her silent entrance.

  Flowridia struggled to hear Meira’s quiet retort. “To pledge to a god of debauchery would hardly do her any-”

  “She’s not joining Eionei, either!” Etolié’s sunken, bloodshot eyes turned to Flowridia herself. “Flowers, hi! How are you? Get any sleep after last night?”

  Flowridia glanced between the two arguing figures, as Meira herself turned and approached her. “Flowridia, I wished to speak to you-”

  “No, she doesn’t,” Etolié said, rushing to Flowridia’s side. “Sorry, cult practice has been cancelled for today.”

  Meira’s sightless eyes made her glare all the more ominous. “Sol Kareena would accept us all, but we must choose her. Flowridia, consider how your talents could be used to glorify the Goddess’ name.” The eerie woman walked away, Sora following behind, and once the door shut, Etolié finally released her hold on Flowridia’s shoulder.

  “Fun fact, Flowers: The Theocracy of Sol Kareena was founded by a branch-off of elves who thought their own people’s antiquated views on the Old Gods were corrupt. Years later, we have Meira Schmeira trying to convert Staelash into another branch of worship because she thinks the Theocracy is corrupt.” With an aggravated sigh, Etolié stepped away. “Eionei’s theology doesn’t change. ‘Get drunk. Live free.’ That’s not so complicated, right?”