by S D Simper
A cold hand met the small of her back. Ayla suddenly stood beside her and pulled her into an embrace. Flowridia’s breath hitched, and Ayla’s gentle hand ran down the thick waves of her hair. “Perhaps you should start at the beginning.” Her lips grazed Flowridia’s jaw before their eyes met, and she stood on her toes to kiss a tear at the corner of Flowridia’s eye. Fingers slid along the contours of her back and waist. Ayla grabbed both of Flowridia’s hands and led her away – not to the bench, but to the enormous tree sheltering them.
With one arm, she scooped Flowridia into a tight hold. Conspiracy tugged at her lip as she reached up, and then she pulled them onto the lowest branch.
Flowridia froze, trusting but nervous, and closed her eyes until she finally felt Ayla’s other arm wrap around her and place her safely in her lap. When she looked down, she saw the bench and the grass perhaps ten feet down. Ayla sat secure on the bough of the tree, cradled by branches, caressed by leaves.
Flowridia rested her head against Ayla’s lifeless chest, reveling in the sound of birds, whispering trees, and all the lively things encompassing them.
She closed her eyes, letting nature’s quiet melody fill her with peace. “Nearly four years ago, I ran away from home. Not a traditional home – I grew up in an orphanage, surrounded by other girls, some of whom I helped to raise. But every night I crept into the woods and spoke to Aura. She practically raised me and taught me most of what I know of magic and nature. I kept her a secret, but when we were discovered, we had to run. Witches were feared in my village.”
“Any girl pledged to a demon would be feared among ignorant human swine,” Ayla said, spite in the words. “You’re lucky Etolié found you.”
Flowridia shook her head. “My life would be very different, had Etolié found me then. Instead, I felt . . .” She slowed her words, each one meticulous in its choosing. “A tugging in my soul. That was what it felt like. There was something out there waiting, and I couldn’t ignore it any longer.”
“Did you ever find it?” The intrigue in Ayla’s voice caught Flowridia by surprise.
“I did.” Flowridia remembered the face in her nightmares, her mother’s smile and laugh, but when she opened her eyes, she saw only Ayla’s entranced stare. “I did. My mother, Odessa.”
Realization flashed through Ayla’s features. “That’s a famous name. The Swamp Witch was a legend I heard whispers of even living in Nox’Kartha. I heard she birthed children to sate her unusual appetite.”
“She ate the ones she deemed unworthy of her legacy,” Flowridia managed to say, and the embrace around her body tightened. “But often, she would birth them and leave them on the doorsteps of unwitting families or swap them with their own infant daughters.
“For three years I learned from her,” Flowridia continued, but her voice stopped. Her hand instinctively clenched at Ayla’s dress, and she gasped as memories flooded her mind-
“You’ve come so far, Flower Child. Look at you, constructing wards-
“I’ll strip you of skin and boil it for my next meal if-
“Someone approaches; let him in, won’t you? If you’re more his taste, let him have a bite-
“One more for the garden. Flower Child, will you grab my carving knife?”
To speak of hell was to invite its company.
“For three years, I stayed,” Flowridia whispered, drops of wetness staining the fabric clutched to her face. The breath she took stung her throat, rough and gasping. “And I wish to say nothing more.”
Ayla held her tight, pressing Flowridia’s face against her dress. Cool fingers caressed Flowridia’s hair. “I can imagine enough, given the whispers I’ve heard. But what of Aura?”
“My mother offered me the choice, to either consume my familiar or have her be cast out.” Flowridia glanced up, her eyes surely swollen, but Ayla’s gaze held no judgement. “Should I explain?”
Ayla shook her head. “Witches are known to lose their humanity to the temptation of higher power. Consuming a familiar gives a witch an immediate and substantial boost in power, but they’re stunted from then on.”
Flowridia clung to every word. “How do you know so much about this?”
“I have lived a terribly long time, Flowra, and it hasn’t all been fun. Study before play.”
Flowridia settled back into the embrace, hair brushing the exposed skin and fabric of Ayla’s chest. “She offered me a choice, and I chose to let Aura live. What I didn’t know was that Aura never left. My mother had terrorized the swamp and lands around it for generations but was never found – not unless she wanted to be found. She constructed wards to protect her home and hide it. All that time, Aura paced the boundaries, trying to break her way inside.
“I learned the secrets of her wards,” Flowridia continued. “My mother wove them into the earth as I do, but she had a different sort of garden – mushrooms, fungi; all sorts of glowing beautiful things. Her ‘greatest joy,’ as she called it. She drew them into runic shapes, infusing the earth and her home with their power, but underneath-” The imagery of half-eaten corpses caused her to flinch. Ayla’s nails threatened to draw blood, as though clutching her could protect Flowridia from the horrors in her head. “She buried her victims alive – her lovers and her children – to feed them.”
“Genius and madness so often overlap,” she heard her elven lover say.
“There’s so much more, but her garden was a particularly vile bit of ingenuity. The fungi were the key to her wards, and once I learned to manipulate them myself, I could reach through them. I felt Aura’s presence and resolved to leave. I helped her step through-”
Flowridia cut off her words, the gasping pain of speaking too much, too soon. Not once had she cried for this, not since that fateful night. Like an arrow to her body, each word drove it deeper inside, her sobs rising to match her pain. She spoke of Aura, she spoke of Odessa’s death, and she spoke of the despair of that awful, bloodstained night.
But though the arrow pierced deep, it worked its way through, and when she finished, she felt that her raw wounds might finally heal. Tears stained Ayla’s dress, and Flowridia lightly brushed the bony contours of her sternum, her thin skin grounding.
“I buried her,” Flowridia whispered, the peaceful end to her harrowing tale. “I buried my mother too. And her victims. I dug them up from the garden, one by one, and gave them a proper burial. Even if I couldn’t carry them beyond the swamp, I could give them a better fate than what they had.”
Whispering trees spoke around them, their words unfamiliar to Flowridia’s ears. Perhaps they offered comfort, but just as likely they condemned, her complicity in so many crimes a burden to her soul.
Ayla’s silence reeked of fury, but finally Flowridia felt her lover shift beneath her. Ayla’s voice was colder than her skin. “A pity you killed her. I would have reveled in prolonging that monster’s death.”
“Not all she did was wicked,” Flowridia whispered, “and not all I did was pure. She was still my mother, and she treated me with kindness in her own way. I’m so much like her, and with the knowledge I have, with the spells I helped her to brew, what I am but-”
“Flowra.”
The sharpness in Ayla’s tone caused Flowridia to flinch, but a gentle hand against her jaw coaxed her to look up and match Ayla’s icy stare. “You spent three years groomed to continue Odessa’s legacy,” Ayla said, severity in the phrase. “You are a much stronger person than you know, to have walked away.”
Shame gripped Flowridia’s tongue, and her words felt as weak as her will. “I did so many awful things, Ayla-”
“Perhaps, but you survived,” Ayla said, and she pulled Flowridia up, their faces now level. “A monster came to claim you, and you survived. Your fate is not her fate.”
“So instead my fate is to be claimed by monsters like her-” Flowridia snapped her mouth shut, the implications of her words damning and insulting all at once. “I don’t mean that. I don’t think you’re a monster. You’re a woman
– an undead woman but a beautiful undead woman – and I only mean-” Flowridia stopped, tongue stiff, knowing she could say nothing to withdraw her terrible words.
Terrible, because deep down Flowridia knew her lie. She braced herself, awaiting reprimand.
The silence grew loud, louder still when the wind picked up. The branches swayed. Leaves rustled. But Ayla’s whisper, when it came, cut through nature’s stifling song. “Don’t speak lies, Flowra. The world proclaimed me a monster, and so that’s what I became. I found it much more beneficial to be frightening than to be beautiful.”
She remembered Ayla’s reprimand from time past, her mocking of Flowridia’s innocent trust after an invitation to her bed. “Am I stupid to trust you?”
Ayla’s fingers were soft as she stroked Flowridia’s hair. She felt Ayla breathe, and with no need for air, Flowridia knew it was for pleasure, to soak in her scent. “We’ll find out together.”
Flowridia rested her head against Ayla’s hollow heart, her dead blood stagnant with no heartbeat. A reminder of Ayla’s undeath, and Flowridia wondered if her life would be forfeit because of their love.
Yet, the burdens in her soul did seem lighter. Speaking of her pain let a weight drop from her chest, and Ayla was here to steady her unbalanced form. Flowridia shut her eyes and wondered how mad she must be to feel peace in the arms of the monster.
Done with the garden, Ayla helped her scale down the tree, and Flowridia suddenly felt a familiar prickling at her senses. A new figure slipped past her wards with ease. She glanced down the path, unsurprised when Demitri appeared, sheepish in his stance.
Flowridia beckoned the little wolf forward, taking his body into her arms when a shy voice filled her head. I know you need alone time with Lady Ayla, but Etolié is still sick from alcohol.
Flowridia held him as she stood up and said, “My dearest Demitri – are you lonely?”
A little.
“Come and help me make some tea for Etolié. I’ll make you some too.”
Flowridia set him on the ground and went to pluck listrous root.
“It’s odd that he speaks to you,” Ayla mused. “Does he sound like one of us?”
Flowridia smiled, nodding as she dug into the earth by the patch of listrous flowers, picking a few of the orange blossoms and their roots.
When they reached the kitchen, Flowridia set a kettle on the stove and began to rummage through the cupboards for her teacups. She thought of Etolié, how odd it was to think of the Celestial ill from a hangover, but with that came a realization. She turned, watching out of the corner of her eye as Ayla knelt and stroked Demitri’s fur. “You said you couldn’t get drunk.”
“I will admit to being a bit intoxicated last night. But only Nox’Kartha brews substances strong enough to inebriate the undead.”
“It must be difficult to get hungover, then.”
They matched eyes. Flowridia saw a glint of cruel humor flash across Ayla’s face. “You didn’t want to go on the hunt, either.”
Flowridia blushed unbidden and instead turned her attention to assembling Etolié’s tea. Amidst the paired sets sat a lonely teacup, one emblazoned with lavender buds, whose paired saucer rested beside it. Flowridia frowned at the missing teacup but stole the single ceramic piece, resolving to search her bedroom. In a second cup, she placed a few extra orange petals. Demitri liked fruity teas.
On the ground, Ayla presented a hand, letting Demitri move first before offering her respects. Flowridia watched Ayla’s caution and said, “You’re always careful around him.”
“Animal affection isn’t something I’m used to. Living creatures can smell undeath, and most instinctively run from it. Or bite. But a small few are drawn to it, like wolves or bats, spiders.”
Demitri jumped up and tried to lick Ayla’s cheek, but she was faster, catching him as she flinched. She set him down, this time allowing him to place a small kiss at her chin.
To think of Ayla as nervous around animals proved too amusing, and Flowridia couldn’t help but chuckle. Demitri looked up, his childlike eyes large and shining in pure gold. Tell Lady Ayla she smells nice.
Flowridia relayed the message, and a genuine smiled tugged at Ayla’s lips. Whistling sang from the kettle, and Flowridia moved to pour the prepared water into the teacups.
“Demitri,” Ayla said politely, “I appreciate the sentiment. Given that I don’t sweat, I smell good more often than not.”
“You don’t sweat?” Flowridia asked, realizing in all their love-making, she hadn’t seen even a shine of liquid at Ayla’s brow. “That makes sense. But you do have some bodily functions.”
“There’s a bit of dark magic and mystery holding me together.” Ayla rose and followed Flowridia from the room, the teacup and saucer held in Flowridia’s hands. “I can cry, but I don’t bleed. I can have sex, but I can’t digest food.”
“What do you do when you eat for show?”
“I force it back up. Otherwise, it’ll rot inside me.”
Flowridia grimaced, embarrassed at the topic, yet oddly endeared that Ayla would share it. “That sounds terrible. What about your hair? Does it grow?”
Ayla shook her head. “But there are magicians in Nox’Kartha who can work wonders. Changing my hair is a spell, not a biological function.”
At the library, Flowridia crept on silent feet as she navigated the bookshelves.
Engulfed in scarves and blankets and resting underneath the floating crystal was Etolié. The Celestial stirred and opened one eye. “Flowers, hello,” she whispered. “Everything is too bright. Say nothing. Leave the tea and walk away.” Her eyes looked to Demitri. “Leave the wolf. He’s cute.”
Flowridia resisted the urge to laugh at her pitiful mentor. Instead, she set the two teacups down beside Etolié’s head and smiled when Demitri began to lap at the one meant for him.
“Tell them I’m dying and won’t be at the meeting.”
Flowridia nodded and stepped back, taking Ayla’s hand to lead her out.
* * *
“Nox’Kartha will by paying for everything, of course. They ask for six months. They . . . may have implied providing a rather substantial dowry as well.”
Sitting in on the meeting with Marielle and Zorlaeus proved a boring event, even with wedding planning. In the council chambers, only a select few sat in to debate foreign affairs – Thalmus, among them, the most frugal of their counterparts. He kept his face buried in a notebook, scribbling furiously, and only looked up to glare at the undead woman sitting at Flowridia’s side. Ayla sat in Etolié’s chair, watching the room like a spider might watch a fly.
“What I want to know,” Marielle said, grabbing the letter from Zorlaeus, “is how they found out before an official announcement to our own kingdom was issued.”
Flowridia watched as Zorlaeus turned his nervous stare toward Ayla, frowning as she placed a hand on her chest. “Are you implying that I informed Imperator Casvir of this scandalous proposal? That I looked him in the eye as I stole his personal flask from his belt and that Viceroy Murishani nearly wet himself in excitement?”
Zorlaeus smiled curtly and nodded.
Ayla shrugged innocently and glanced at Flowridia. “I can’t imagine why he’d think it was me.”
“What’s important,” Zorlaeus continued, “is that I’ve been respectfully fired as a conflict of interest. A replacement ambassador will be sent.”
Marielle reached over and grabbed Zorlaeus’ hand. The ring at her finger flashed nearly as bright as her orb, illuminating the room in red. “I can’t be sad about this. More time for us to be together.”
“I’m your maid of honor, right Lae Lae?” Ayla said with a wink. Her dress swept dramatically as she brought her legs up into her chair, perched on her knees. Flowridia had never realized how jumpy Ayla could be. “With as good a dowry as it seems you’re worth, you’re sure to be a blushing bride.”
Marielle looked like she might peel the smile from her face and impale Ayla through her exp
osed sternum.
Zorlaeus began scratching nervously at his forearm. “I don’t know if I can argue with that sort of offer-”
“I can,” Marielle offered brightly. In her bosom, the orb began to glow. “Lady Ayla, with due respect, we’ll be going a more traditional route. If anyone is to be Lae Lae’s maid of honor, it’ll be Casvir.”
Ayla’s hand twitched nearly as violently as her smile. Flowridia covered it with her own.
“Moving on,” Marielle said, looking to Thalmus, “the embassy. It opens tomorrow. I was thinking of having a small reception afterward.”
Flowridia perked up. “You are engaged, Marielle. What about a party?”
“An engagement party,” Marielle mused, smiling faintly. “I suppose we do have to announce it to the masses, since Nox’Kartha is bound to let the secret out. A small party, then.” A frown stole her enthusiasm. “Put together in less than a day.”
“All we would need is food, and perhaps music,” Zorlaeus chimed in. “We could hold it at the embassy reception hall.”
“I think that sounds lovely,” Flowridia said, and she lightly squeezed Ayla’s hand.
“I so rarely get to play my instruments,” Marielle said. “Perhaps I’ll scavenge up a band myself. Would it be inappropriate for a monarch to play music at her own party?”
Thalmus said simply, “It would save money.”
Marielle beamed. “And so, it is written. What about food?”
Flowridia didn’t hear Thalmus’ response. A reception event for all the Nox’Karthans in the embassy and her council, but that hardly mattered. Flowridia felt a plot form in her head, and when she looked at Ayla and those vibrant blue eyes, she realized she had a perfect gift for the occasion.
