The Sting of Victory

by S D Simper

  “No magic,” Khastra replied. “Only skill.”

  “Khastra’s an artisan; not a magician. But if I ask her nicely, she might make something for you too.”

  Flowridia handed the crystal weapon back to Etolié. “I wouldn’t want to put her out. I’m happy with my shard.”

  But Khastra extended her hand, motioning for Flowridia to offer hers. Flowridia reached up, and the tattooed woman immediately set her fingers around Flowridia’s wrist. “You are tinier than I thought. Ring or bracelet?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You already wear a creepy necklace. Ring or bracelet?”

  “Bracelet?”

  Khastra released Flowridia’s hand. “I will set to work tonight.”

  “That’s very kind of you,” Flowridia said, and she inspected the enormous, muscled woman, curious now that she had a hint to her heritage. Khastra bore elven features, with her pointed ears and prominent, almost delicate cheek bones, but the glowing blue eyes and horns, and certainly her tail and digitigrade, hooved legs, set her apart. The tattoos along her arms and neck bore a language Flowridia had seen in Mother’s books but never learned to read, and she wondered if they extended along her entire body.

  “Etolié has already been generous in her payment.”

  “What does she pay you?” Flowridia asked.

  Khastra’s laugh, bombastic as ever, echoed from the wall to the skylight. “I will be selling my crystal shards to Nox’Kartha for a hefty profit. It is useless to me; I have little patience for magic.”

  Yet another elven trait. “Forgive me for asking, but I hadn’t considered it before. You’re an elf?”

  “Half,” Khastra replied, utterly unoffended.

  “The other half can’t manifest on this realm without a host,” Etolié added, and Flowridia struggled to hide her shock.

  Flowridia had met many De’Sindai, but they always bore a human lineage. Elves were hell-bent on purity; demon-descended elves were unheard of. And being half-demon, Khastra’s knowledge of demonic possession made an awful lot of sense.

  “I never thought to ask,” Flowridia said, demure despite the general’s good humor. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

  “I cannot be offended or shamed by the truth.”

  The statement struck a chord with Flowridia, but she found herself too shy to press.

  “Khastra’s lived on this planet longer than most mortals – and immortals,” Etolié said. She pointed to the far corner of shelves, filled with precariously stack tomes. “I got some of my best elven novels from her, since she’s older than most of the dirt covering them. You’ll have to check it out, Flowers. Some might even be older than your favorite bloodsucker.”

  Curious, Flowridia followed Etolié’s directive, her steps quiet as she went to the shelves. She heard Khastra say, “Etolié, try something.”

  Flowridia spared them a glance and realized Etolié had expanded the shield in her own hand. “Make it bigger,” the half-demon said, and from her back, she unstrapped her enormous, crystal hammer. It fell to the ground with an earth-shaking ‘thud’ – Flowridia realized it had cracked the wooden floor.

  “Khastra, why now? My head might split and seep Celestial brain slush all over the floor.”

  “I will get a mop if it does.”

  Flowridia saw the shield expand to cover the hammer and realized Khastra’s experiment; when the circle of magic touched the hammer, the faint glow of the purple crystal faded. It reflected only sunlight.

  Flowridia grabbed the first ancient novel her hand touched – Old Gods of the Elven Providences – and slid to the ground as Khastra held out a hand toward the hammer. Nothing happened. “Good to know,” she mused, and she stooped down, muscles heaving, expanding, to lift the gargantuan weapon with both hands.

  “Still good for smashing though,” Etolié said, her eyes unfocused. Flowridia realized she held the crystal far from her body, but that anywhere the shield touched, her clothing disappeared. The sleeve of her dress had gone, as did small bits of where it draped on the floor.

  Khastra either didn’t notice, or simply didn’t care. “Exactly. Always make sure you have a bigger stick than your enemy.”

  Flowridia wiped dust from the pressed collection of paper, marveling at the hand-written words when she peeled open the front cover. It bore an old style of elven syntax, only a handful of words recognizable as she thumbed through the pages, pausing here and there when she came across an illustration.

  One such illustration gave her pause. Intrigued by the faded ink and the figures represented, Flowridia studied a mosaic of the two Old Gods. The woman had no details to her picture – only a lithe, black silhouette and fire at her feet. She looked away from her counterpart, yet their hands touched at the center, her small one held in his large, gloved one.

  He stared wistfully at her image – even depicted on ancient paper, Flowridia saw longing – yet her breath caught at the image of the picturesque man. Brilliant and armored, a halo gleamed around his head, and even in a monochrome depiction, Flowridia could practically see the golden light.

  “Etolié,” she said, and something in her visage must have spoken of panic. Etolié placed her toy on her shelf of gifted trinkets, the gemmed weapon fitting in well with the rest, and approached, Khastra following behind. Flowridia tapped the image of the gleaming man, one who bore a sword and no sigil, the same man who had called her a fool and asked for a name.

  Etolié sat beside her while Khastra leaned against the shelf, looking confused as she stared down at the offered picture. But Etolié said, “Well, Flowers, Prince Falrir did say the true Gods of this world have every use for orbs.” The Celestial stole the book, immediately squinting at the text. “Khastra, I need your knowledge of ancient elven literature.”

  Khastra set her hammer down and sat beside Etolié, her armor brushing against what Flowridia knew was an illusionary dress.

  “What does this mean, Etolié?” Flowridia asked, watching as Khastra’s eyes scanned the ancient text.

  “It means we either have a committed imposter,” Etolié replied, and already she pulled out the small mirror she kept, “or a very big problem.” She tapped the reflection, and Flowridia watched as it began to glow, and then Empress Alauriel’s face appeared.

  Lara smiled, her silver eyes kind when she saw Etolié. “Hello, Etolié.”

  Etolié wasted no time on pleasantries, instead turning the mirror over to face the book. “This is our man.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Flowers found this. This is the dead God of Order, and he looks exactly like the man who murdered your father.”

  While Etolié and Lara hashed out the impossibility of the claim, Flowridia watched Khastra frown over the text and turn the page, revealing yet another depiction of the dead Gods. An artistic rendition of an elven woman in childbirth, yet from her womb burst a cacophony of angels and demons. A grotesque image, truly – she lay as though dead, her eyes rolled back – and held above her head, spilling from her hands, were six orbs.

  “Khastra, what is this?”

  “The Convergence and Chaos,” Khastra replied, still skimming the text. “A metaphor for creation – when the worlds converged, it killed the Old Gods to bring in the new.”

  She was dead, then. Flowridia frowned at one small detail, though. “She was an elf?”

  “That is wildly disputed. Elves like to claim it, but elves do not typically worship non-elves.”

  Flowridia sat back, frowning as she recalled Prince Falrir’s claim, that their God had promised rewards for their loyalty, that historically they had worshipped Order, that Gods gained power through belief . . .

  But why would a dead God wish for orbs?

  Thoughtful, Flowridia turned the page back to the depiction of Order and Chaos as two opposite entities and saw the longing in Order’s stylized view, wondering if perhaps . . .

  Two halves of a whole. A beautiful thought, two deities ruling their o
wn world, until one used the orbs to converge the worlds together.

  “Order and Chaos were opposites in all things,” Flowridia said aloud, and saw Etolié and Khastra – and Lara in the mirror – all look to her. Shy, she continued with, “Chaos used the orbs to combine the worlds. What if Order wants to tear them back apart?”

  “It would destroy Sha’Demoni, and probably Celestière with it,” Etolié said, looking over Flowridia’s shoulder at the book.

  Lara, in the mirror, said, “I will discuss this with my council and give them this new information.”

  Flowridia looked to Etolié. “You think it holds weight?”

  “I don’t know. But even if he’s only a delusional mad-man playing God, with the power of six orbs, it’ll nearly make him one.”

  Etolié handed down books. They spent the day reading.

  Ayla had promised two weeks.

  On the appointed day, they received a letter from Archbishop Xoran – an invitation to their official unveiling of the statue of Sol Kareena and her child, along with a request for a meeting between his council and theirs. An offer could be made for the orb, he wrote, but he would only discuss the details in person.

  Dirtied from a morning spent gardening, Flowridia kept her dirt-encrusted fingers hidden in her skirts as Thalmus berated the willful queen.

  “You won’t be going,” Thalmus said, in response to Marielle’s palpable excitement.

  The queen pouted, the letter falling to her lap. “I can’t stay cooped inside this city forever, so Flowridia and I-”

  “Will leave us alone with Ayla Darkleaf?”

  In the council chamber, Thalmus, Marielle, Khastra, and Flowridia were present. Etolié had been summoned, but the sober Celestial hadn’t left her library since Flowridia’s discovery.

  Flowridia tentatively raised a hand, but quickly drew it back, recalling her soiled fingers. “The embassy is only three days from now. Can we make both events?”

  Marielle squinted at the letter, visibly making calculations in her head. “If we leave the morning after, we can make it-”

  “Twice now,” Thalmus interrupted, “there have been attempts on your life, even if Flowra had to bear the brunt of the second.”

  “There will be no danger this time,” Khastra said, but she barely paid attention, instead focusing on the cloth she used to polish the crevices of her gargantuan weapon. “Because this time, I will be accompanying Etolié. Who would dare?”

  With palpable ire, Marielle slunk back into her throne. “Fine, send Etolié and Khastra and leave me and my orb here unprotected-”

  “Etolié already thought this through,” Khastra continued, easily speaking over Marielle. “She has commissioned a box made of her crystal, big enough to hide an orb inside. Even if he comes here, he will never find it.”

  Flowridia had to admit it was a clever plan.

  “Queen Etolié has spoken, I suppose,” Marielle said, and Flowridia saw her distorted reflection glowering in the crystal weapon. “Meeting adjourned. I’ve promised to see Zorlaeus, so if Lady Ayla shows up early, warn me.”

  Flowridia left the council room, Marielle’s request dredging up her heart’s insecurity. Two weeks of longing, wondering, worrying . . .

  Realizing the tangle of her hair and the mess of her dress and hands, Flowridia went to her bedroom for a fresh dress, then to the washroom to bathe.

  Flowridia shared the washroom with all members of the ruling council – aside from Thalmus and Khastra, who had their own respective wash areas to accommodate their sizes – and was grateful to find the room and large brass tub, unoccupied.

  A clever assembly of pipes and well-placed splits in the planes – set up by Empress Alauriel herself, Etolié said, given her talents for bending the structure of reality – allowed water to gush from pipes into the tub. Flowridia removed her nightgown and underclothes, then folded them neatly into a pile on a small table by the door. On top, she placed the ear.

  Her hair fell in thick waves as she removed bits of brush, leaves, and forgotten flower petals, ones she let settle across the surface of the water once the tub had filled.

  Warmth enveloped her body and soul. Flowridia sank until only the barest hints of her shoulders peeked above the water. Releasing a deep breath, she reached for the soap, sliding it along her thin arms as she forced stress to seep from her pores and into the water. Bubbles gathered along the surface, congregating around her exposed skin.

  When would Ayla be here? With no need for sleep, she seemed to live in her own timeline. Perhaps Flowridia would fall asleep alone but awaken in the arms of the enticing woman.

  Heat colored her cheeks at the thought of awakening in a soft embrace. Beautiful Ayla with her sharp eyes illuminated by candlelight, her dexterous fingers as they pulled each flower petal from Flowridia’s hair, the reveal of her body, sensuous and slight-

  Flowridia bit her lip, demure at her own scandalous memory. Two weeks apart had brought worry but also a dissatisfaction she could only label as ‘impatience.’

  Her shoulders glistened as the soap glided along their sharp contours. Flowridia sat up, washing her neck, her breasts, shifting her thoughts away from how smooth and soft they would feel beneath Ayla’s hands. Instead, she thought of the future, of how to entertain Ayla in the upcoming days. There had been the coy offer of dinner, and Flowridia hoped Ayla fulfilled her tantalizing promise, curious at what sort of menu an elven vampire – or something like it, she corrected herself – would concoct.

  The soap slid down to her stomach, and then Flowridia heard, “A little lower, Flowra.”

  Flowridia gasped, the soap slipping from her hands, and curled against the metal wall of the tub to hide her body. Ayla Darkleaf managed to fill the entire doorway, despite her small figure, her hands gripping either side of the wooden frame. Her fingers slid down the wood, and Flowridia felt a blush radiate across her face and chest.

  “No, no – do continue,” Ayla said, eyebrow quirked. The grin spreading across her face held a dangerous sort of mischief, exacerbated by the burn still brutally marring her face. Would it forever? “Gods know I’ve done the same thinking about you. Give me a show.”

  Breathless, Flowridia grabbed the soap, nervous but aching beneath Ayla’s gaze. Beneath the water, the soap rubbed against her thighs and up-

  The heat between Flowridia’s legs rose at the touch. The soap drifted from her hand, and with a permissive glance to Ayla, she touched that small bud oh so gently.

  Her breath hitched. Ayla’s smile grew wide. She stepped forward, coolly slipping the sleeves of her dress off her shoulders. Mesmerized, Flowridia watched the slow reveal of Ayla’s sensuous form. Her finger dipped lower, and despite the water she could feel warm, thick wetness begin to seep.

  Ayla asked for a show, but she was the one who gave it, her dress pooling around her feet. Ayla was as alluring as she was in memory, but Flowridia’s imagination could never recreate the regal way she held herself, her proud stance, and of course that grin. Utterly nude, Ayla came closer, her thin skin revealing every minute movement of her musculature.

  When Ayla knelt, Flowridia felt air brush against her ear and Ayla’s eyes on her body beneath the water. “Oh, Sweet Flowra, you’re such a sight.” When Flowridia’s hand paused, she heard Ayla chide, “No, keep going. Let’s see how I fuck you in your memory.” A wicked chuckle caressed Flowridia’s ear. “You are thinking about me, right?”

  Biting her lip, Flowridia moved her fingers, letting them stroke against the soft folds before two disappeared inside, her body alight at the touch. A whine escaped unbidden from her throat. She held it in, even as she moved her fingers slowly in and out, the water causing friction.

  From behind, Ayla’s hands appeared on her shoulders and slid beneath the water, the temperature shift shocking. She stopped at Flowridia’s breasts, squeezing as she whispered, “Don’t be so demure. Let me hear how much you’ve missed me.”

  Immediately, a moan escaped Flowridia’
s throat, pleasure simmering as Ayla’s hands groped her. Her own fingers moved smoothly inside her body. Lips against the back of her throat brought the promise of sweet marks, and as Ayla sucked on her skin, Flowridia said, “I missed you.”

  “I know.”

  Flowridia slowed the pace of her fucking, Ayla’s hands on her breasts a delight she longed to savor. “Perhaps I shouldn’t ask-” Ayla suddenly pinched the peaked buds, forcing a gasp from Flowridia’s throat.

  “Shouldn’t ask what?” Ayla said, voice muffled by Flowridia’s neck.

  “How was your mission for Casvir-”

  Again, Ayla pinched her, the pain lingering until Flowridia yelped. Ayla released her breasts entirely. “Is Casvir what you think of when you fuck yourself, Flowra?”

  Flowridia shook her head.

  “Then shut up.” Flowridia felt her stand, but her nail traced a threatening line along Flowridia’s shoulder. Ayla appeared at the side of the tub, then stepped inside, the water chilling as she sank her body down. The small woman leaned forward, no amusement in her features. “What were you thinking of?”

  Flowridia shrunk back, the words, “I wanted to know that you were safe,” tumbling out before she could collect them into something articulate. “I-I’m sorry if-”

  “No, Flowra,” Ayla said, her tense posture fading as the woman forced a smile. “This only means I need to try harder.”

  The water parted as Ayla lowered herself down, engulfing her as she disappeared below the surface.

  Flowridia watched, concerned until she felt Ayla’s lips against her thigh. Pressure welled in her abdomen as she felt Ayla’s teeth scrape against her skin, trailing up until Ayla’s mouth kissed her vulva.

  Flowridia gripped the edges of the tub, head suddenly light. The raging force of her lover dominated every corner of her mind, her pleasure too loud to be shied by any semblance of sanity. Ayla’s skilled tongue pulled cries from her body, and Flowridia hoped her ecstasy could be heard beneath the water’s surface.