Transcend

by Natalia Jaster

  Envy had called it his refuge. Clearly, he’d previously conjured some of these details, customizing them to his liking.

  The water and walls give off enough atmospheric light, yet Sorrow casts about for an extra source. Focusing on the taper candles situated within recesses, she beseeches the stars. In response, the wicks flare, glazing her bedraggled clothes.

  Her ankle-length skirt and vest are intact, although she’d sacrificed her boots in order to swim. Similarly, Envy’s unshod toes poke from under the tattered hem of his slacks. At some point, he must have relinquished them to the sea.

  She glimpses his profile, with its patrician nose and wincing brows. He’s debating whether to nurse his shattered ribs first or replace his outfit.

  The answer should be obvious, but this is Envy.

  If she makes a suggestion between the two options, he’ll ignore it. If she demands his cooperation, he’ll whine. If she gives a shit, he’ll hold it against her later.

  This. This is why they have zero in common.

  Love and Andrew. Anger and Merry. Wonder and Malice.

  They’re partners who respect each other. Yet they think some legend—about two deities choosing lust over love—will bring Sorrow and Envy together. They think it will change this battle.

  But that can’t be right. It has to be another pairing.

  Envy nearly topples her over. Sorrow drags him on to the mossy floor, then crouches beside him and braces her palms on her thighs. “You have a lot of explaining to do, Mister.”

  “Best to get you out of those wet clothes first,” he mumbles.

  A traitorous chuckle skips off her tongue. She compresses her lips to stop it, but it’s too late. Her mirth slips through the cracks, foreign and humiliating.

  Sadly, this asshole notices. His tired mouth quirks as he listens to the sound, his eyes drifting closed. “I’ve waited hundreds of years for that.”

  He’s delirious. He didn’t mean it.

  Meanwhile, the tingle swirling in Sorrow’s gut is an illusion. A farce meant for sentimentals like Merry, bless her sweet soul.

  The only truth Sorrow knows for certain is they’re not going anywhere.

  For three days, they’re stuck with each other.

  8

  Envy

  Mmm, sateen blankets. Luscious. Glorious.

  They glide over his skin, slipping into the crevices between his abs, of which he possesses in abundance. Envy purrs. Twisting over, he feels cocooned in this heavenly swathe of material. Vaguely, he has the presence of mind to deduce that he’s garbed in nothing but sleeping pants woven of a similar delicious textile, as malleable as water.

  Envy knows the flux of that fabric: silk pants. From the way this material licks his thighs, he’d say it’s sewn from a deep, glossy gulf. The garment’s richness indicates an enchanted quality, achievable only in this realm.

  What gives him pause is the mossy bed beneath him. Stretching his arms like a feline, Envy notes other perplexities. A single, plump pillow cradles his head, though he never sleeps with only one pillow. No, he prefers the lavishness of several.

  His bare chest contracts with each breath, and his toes poke from under the blanket. Familiar spices perfume the atmosphere, along with the purest white. The sounds of droplets trickle from nearby.

  Envy’s eyes whip open to a smooth, unblemished cavern dappled in shadows. What the Fates? He lurches upright, grinding his knuckles into his sockets until his periphery clears.

  In the Astral Sea, his house contains industrious but luxurious ornamentations. Linen bedding. Plush sofas and mirrors. A drafting table and fashion renderings. Bolts of jacquard, damask, toile, houndstooth, and leather. Pelts of fur and spools of yarn.

  This isn’t his house. His head swings from left to right, absorbing the taper candles set into recesses, the wicks twitching with flames that sprinkle the walls.

  The cavern. His refuge, the other end of which resides…

  Hope dashes through him. When? How?

  Envy consults his fractured memory. But it’s the actual fractures that rouse him fully, his ribcage grinding, the pain seizing his mind. He seethes, resting his palm against the ladder of bones covered in a gauze dressing.

  Wicked clarity returns.

  Needing a moment to regroup, he claws through his mane, the infernal layers snarled from the journey here. It’s going to take him a while to clean up, particularly by his standards. To say the least, he’d have an easier time shaving a warthog.

  He clings to the details around him. The inner stream. The candles. The hearth. The pillows, cushions, and upholstered chairs. The cloths looping from the ceiling.

  Upon periodic returns to the Peaks for intermissions of rest, Envy would often retire here, to his private sanctuary. But after being ostracized, he hadn’t anticipated seeing it again.

  Presently, he relishes this moment, which alleviates the howling agony of his injury. But he can’t recall tucking himself in, nor disrobing himself, nor dressing his fractures.

  Who had done that? Who had tended to him?

  That’s when an ominous presence invades his consciousness, a grim and sinister essence disturbing the environment. He senses evil nearby, stinking of pessimism and misery.

  Envy curls his nose. He peers around, searching for a horrible outfit and unkempt hair the shade of anguish.

  The cavern’s threshold extends to a lagoon and its lush footpath border. His gaze lands on a figure settled at the water’s edge. Her profile faces him as she consults the dome of stars and planets. Her tresses quiver in the breeze, and her skirt puddles around her thighs, enabling her limbs to dip into the lagoon.

  Sorrow’s here, infesting his refuge. For no apparent reason, the echo of lapping water sends a fissure down his shoulder blades. She looks out of place.

  Yet not as much as she should. There’s something appealing about her ensconced in his domain, surrounded by All Things Envy.

  He shakes his head. What is wrong with him? Why can’t he stop staring at this morose female? Why has he frequently stolen glances at her, from the time of their youth? Why has he expelled so much of his reserves antagonizing her?

  Why does he care what she thinks of him? Why, the one deity who cares what no one thinks of her?

  Condemnation. Of all the immortals to be sequestered with. At least, the goddess had elected to nurse instead of hex him while he slept.

  But Fates. Why her? Why is it always her?

  Despite their upbringing, plus the fact that he’s been inside her, it’s hardly unusual that he knows so little about Sorrow. That same rule applies to numerous other partners on his roster.

  All the same, none of the gods and goddesses that he’d fucked have ever provoked him, with words and silence, with grunts and glares. None have ever slithered beneath his flesh. None have ever been as unimpressed with Envy, even after their lust faze began.

  Envy sniffs. He must be drowsy if he’s making little sense.

  Outside the cavern, his old, tethered boat bobs in the lagoon. Beyond that, a slit of water reveals the inlet from which they’d traveled.

  It’s nighttime, the constellations chipping at the violet hemisphere. According to a rumored myth amongst his people, the stars will shine their greatest when a deity asks for the truth. But a deity will only receive the truth if he or she is ready to hear the answer.

  There’s another condition attached to the myth, but Envy’s too lazy to review it.

  He supposes a declaration of gratitude is in order. Not that Sorrow shall want it, or that she’s ever wanted anything of substance from him—aside from his cock.

  He can’t blame her for that. He possesses a glorious cock.

  Envy smirks, then sweeps the blanket aside. Gaining his feet, he saunters to the threshold, careful not to aggravate his ribs as he leans against the frame. The instant he does, Sorrow tenses from scalp to knees.

  “Sexy view,” he intones, his voice husky and rumpled from slumber.

  S
orrow huffs. She kicks her legs through the water, causing it to swat the rocky outcropping. “Flattery will get you nowhere.”

  As if it ever has with her. At least not when it’s come to anything meaningful.

  “I meant the lagoon,” Envy clarifies blandly, savoring the bolt of embarrassed pink that streaks up her cheek. For good measure, and perhaps out of genuine curiosity, he adds, “Even if I’d been referring to you, do you even know how to take compliment?”

  “You’re welcome for the mending, by the way.”

  “Much obliged, by the way.”

  Nothing but a grunt. They’d gotten here at dawn, which means that he’d spent the day blacked out. She must be exhausted from their jaunt as well.

  “The cavern has plenty of alcoves to use for a bedroom,” he invites.

  “I’m not tired,” she lies. “I tried but can’t sleep.”

  Look at me.

  She won’t do it. That’s not her style. During the one-hundred-fifty-and-a-half times they’d gotten pornographic—yes, one-hundred-fifty-and-a half, due to an unfinished position—not once had she looked at him. The sting of resentment snaps at his skin like a rubber band. He shouldn’t say it. Really, he shouldn’t.

  But he does. “Can’t sleep? Sorrow, I’ve told you before. The monster under your bed is just a mirror.”

  Her head flips toward him. “Well, you own enough of them to know, so I trust your judgement…What?”

  There’s that look. That direct look.

  It satisfies him until another reality strikes. Everything about her is utterly sloppy and lacks grooming. Same old, same old. But on closer inspection, she’s not wearing her customary, melodramatic outfit. Rather, she’s wearing something that blows him off his feet.

  As his gaze roams across the flannel ensemble, Sorrow’s eyes widen in realization. The garments are of a mortal style, with clouds printed on them. Little clouds the likes of which only one fully-grown, immortal soul would don with a straight face.

  “Those are Merry’s pajamas,” he says.

  “Yes,” Sorrow grits between her teeth.

  “You’ve enchanted Merry’s pajamas.”

  “Bravo. Would you like a gold star?”

  “Why did you enchant Merry’s pajamas?”

  “Several months ago, before we set out to conquer the world, she hosted a sleepover—”

  “To which I was not invited?” Envy quips.

  “I hate sleepovers,” she gripes. “They’re a juvenile excuse to stuff yourself with gelato, and share secrets, and paint each other’s toenails some shade called Kismet, so everything stinks of acetone, and you have to sleep in the same room, and there are pillow fights.”

  “Are we talking about the human or non-human version of sleepovers?”

  “The Merry Version. There was music from a record that never seemed to end, plus a fashion show to see who could conceive the most ridiculous sleepwear in history. And all this…this talk…about feelings, and narrating legends over lemonade, and philosophical-existential crap, and ‘fate this’ and ‘free will that,’ and ‘my soul mate’ and ‘your soul mate.’” Sorrow glowers at Envy, those eyes two sharp droplets in her face. “Well, aren’t you going to stop me?”

  “And miss an opportunity to hear you complain?”

  “All that bonding swoonery.”

  “Swoonery?” He sniggers, shuffling into the fresh air while eyeing the spot beside her.

  At the last moment, he changes his mind and sidesteps Sorrow. By the opposite end of the lagoon’s footpath, he settles across from her, rolling up his pants and dunking his limbs.

  Sorrow’s eyes dart away from his naked chest. “During the sleepover, I couldn’t think of what to put on, and the skateboard queen got ambitious, and she went to her dresser.”

  “And you obviously got attached.”

  Sorrow juts her chin toward her skirt and vest, sprawled flat on a rock. “My clothes needed drying.”

  “You could have customized an outfit that’s suitable to your witching hour.”

  “For your information, I didn’t feel like wearing anything combat-worthy. Not if I was going to try and rest.”

  Granted the ensemble would surely look cute on Merry, it’s all wrong for Sorrow. “And this is the best you could come up with? Have you ever heard of chic loungewear?”

  “I usually sleep naked.”

  “At last, something we have in common.” He plucks at his pants. “Rather astute, choosing silk.”

  “It wasn’t hard to gauge. Your vanity has a high thread count.”

  “If I have vanity soaking into my pores, you’ve got self-deprecation soaking into yours. In terms of wardrobe choices, you could have done better for yourself, as usual.”

  “I had other things on my mind than fashion, okay? Get over it.”

  Ah, style block. He’s been a victim of that in the past. Nevertheless, he longs to conjure a camera, in order to document the visual. Moreover, it’s impossible not to snigger. “The clouds are pink.”

  “You need to go away,” she says.

  Envy leans back on his palms. “Need I remind you, this is my refuge.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since forever. I used to come here often. During my last intermission from the human realm, I spent most of the time in this place. When the period of rest was over, I simply portalled back the mortal world from the cavern.” He nudges his chin toward the bobbing boat. “Hence, I left my vessel behind.”

  “Who else knows about your refuge?”

  “Other than my Guide? You, hun.”

  Sorrow releases a chafed noise, her legs agitating the water. For a while, they content themselves with the sounds of the lagoon brushing the banks.

  Envy considers the surplus of things she’d just said and takes a wild guess. “The Goddess of Sorrow is cranky because she’s hungry.”

  “I lost my appetite at the river,” she retorts. “But if I’d wanted food, I’d have fed myself.”

  True. That said, nourishment requires unwinding instead of sucking all the positive energy from his abode. It involves nurturing oneself instead of depriving oneself.

  Envy surveys the razor cuts up her arm, a ladder of marks extending from beneath her rolled-up sleeves. The sight of those blemishes produces a stitch in his side. Either that, or the piercing sensation is due to the cracked ribs.

  To the contrary, the pointless bandage across her nose—because she still hasn’t removed it, and the rapids failed to strip it from her—unnerves him. It’s repulsive, and it makes her look like an ailing human. Furthermore, she hasn’t told him the reason for it, much less for the self-inflicted cuts.

  He has a feeling that Love knows the story. And Wonder. And Merry.

  The notion pinches him with an emotion that he’s all too familiar with.

  Envy disregards the bandage, as well as the slices across her flesh. “Suit yourself.”

  Channeling the stars, he envisions an alfresco meal. The divinities answer him. A woven mat appears, laden with figs, a board of cheese, a breadbasket of sweet rolls and hearty nut loaves, a plate of game and salmon, a platter of crackers and caviar, and decadent pastries that ooze with preserves.

  Sorrow scrutinizes the fare. “You forgot the fourteen karat goblets.”

  “Would it shock you to learn that I drink from the bottle?” Envy asks, dropping a fig on his tongue, chewing, and swallowing. “Besides, this set up is low maintenance.”

  “Ha. You’re about as low maintenance as cashmere.”

  “Cashmere is worth the maintenance.”

  Sorrow rises, her limbs splashing from the depths and dripping onto the flat stones. She drenches a path to him with a nonchalant shift of hips. She has a forward bend to her whenever she walks, likes she’s constantly reaching for something, which is ludicrous considering she’s the least covetous being in history.

  Envy would pursue that train of thought, if he weren’t busy amusing himself. Here she comes, heading toward his pic
nic, crossing the divide. It’s like getting an elusive creature to approach after eons of incentives and come-hither calls.

  Miraculously, it has only worked now that he’s stopped trying. He can’t shake the victorious feeling this elicits. That is, until the distinct fragrance of salty, sweet, bitter, and sour reminds him that she’s merely answering the call of food.

  Still, she’s the first to break from her corner, not him. He considers that a triumph and chuckles inwardly. How quickly one surrenders when one’s stomach grumbles.

  The flannels drag across the ground, emitting a gentle scraping noise. The hem and sleeves hang past her ankles and wrists. Merry is just as slender, but she’s taller than Sorrow, who’s dwarfed by the ensemble.

  Fates. She’d literally enchanted pajamas in the exact same size.

  Sorrow drops next to him, scrunches the pants up to the knees, and plops a single leg back into the water. “What is it with you and clothes?”

  Envy offers her a sweet roll. “It’s an essential of life, but a beautiful one. Like shelter and food, which expresses who we are to people.”

  She accepts the bread, breaking it apart before munching. “And what you’d like them to see.”

  “I’m no fake when it comes to my tastes.”

  “Deities curate their lives the same as humans.”

  “Why shouldn’t we? It’s a delight.”

  She scoots closer to the feast. Selecting a silver fork, she spears a wedge of camembert and waves it in the air. “But you’re still directing the world’s impression of you.”

  “What about pleasure?” Envy argues. “What if I’m doing it for myself. For the simple pleasure.”

  “Ha. Coming from the poster child of envy, I don’t get how your thirsts are remotely quenched in any given situation.”

  “How dare you call me one-dimensional,” he exaggerates with feigned umbrage.

  “Pleasure is never simple. It comes with consequences and false hopes that happiness is permanent.”

  “That’s a sorrowful attitude. Aren’t you overcomplicating the delight of, say, biting into a succulent fruit or wrapping yourself in velour? What are the consequences of that?”