Survive

by Vera Nazarian

  The flower opens and the fire flows . . .

  Am-re-vet-Ra! Am-re-vet-Ra! Am-re-vet-Ra!

  We start the sequence of the next verse, and all I see is Aeson’s eyes piercing me. His gaze is dark and rich with something primal and forceful beyond imagining. His gaze has me pinned—unblinking, unable to let go, and not wanting to. . . .

  With every repetition of the syllables of “Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . .” a strange new rhythm is established, as we force the notes out together, and the notes come falling in spurts, like blood being pumped by our hearts.

  And with each sung utterance of each syllable I feel more and more like I am coming apart at the seams—no, melting. My gaze is melting and drowning in his, my fingertips and palms melting and fusing with his skin and deeper down, into his very flesh. Soon, I feel an overwhelming lassitude in my limbs combined with a pressure in my core that builds. . . .

  I believe that, in those bright, indescribable moments, I take a step closer to him—and so does he, advancing toward me. Moving in naturally, we are entirely controlled by the pull of mutual attraction, so that our bodies are now only inches apart.

  The serpent rises and the flower blooms . . .

  “Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . . Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . . Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . .”

  My overwhelming awareness is that now I can barely remain standing. My lower limbs have lost their ability to function, growing numb, becoming secondary, all because of my molten lead core . . . and the only thing keeping me upright is the grip of his scalding hands, strong fingers and large palms encasing mine, anchoring me in power and in the moment.

  And then I feel it . . . something forceful and inevitable, something hard pressing against my abdomen. Our lower bodies are close enough for it to happen.

  The serpent rises.

  “Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . .” His lips—they form and shape the sound with forceful, aggressive precision and yes, I see their rhythmic movement and their chiseled contours with my peripheral vision, without needing to look away and break our direct gaze. . . .

  It’s then that I become aware of the undeniably erotic nature of it—the sound of his beautiful Logos baritone, his moving lips—even as I am taken apart by the power of his eyes boring into mine . . . and I can feel him down below with my abdomen.

  His serpent rising.

  “Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . . Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . . Am . . . re . . . vet . . . Ra . . .”

  The Amrevet Chant ends, fading quietly.

  And so do all the complex layers of our voices. The priests grow silent. They are departing now, as we have been told in advance—once the Chant is over, the two of us are left completely to ourselves.

  Aeson and I stand, maddened and wild, fiercely gripping each other’s hands. It occurs to me stupidly in those final instants that what we’ve just done is used the desire voice on each other.

  That’s the intended purpose of the Amrevet Chant.

  Damn . . . as if we needed it.

  But the thought is lost, because in the next instant Aeson pulls me to him hard, full body on body, and suddenly we are grappling. . . . We lose our footing and we collapse together, gasping for breath, falling backwards upon the great bed—he on top of me, grasping the back of my head then my hair in his fist, our mouths crushing each other, he pressing me down further even as I sink into the soft coverlet layers, my fingers clawing at his back—as we struggle and pant, maddened with sudden, explosive need.

  I don’t remember if I ever have the chance to pull the tassel at my waist to undo the Amrevet Dress. As if it matters. In that blazing moment I don’t have the will or the mind to remember anything at all.

  Chapter 66

  The next moments are complex sequences. They elongate and distend into microcosms and multiverses. Time is caught and captured at the rim of the black hole grail, and the spiraling inward fall commences. . . .

  I am the one falling—dissolving toward the quantum level, all of my cell membranes gone, no walls, no space between us.

  Time is a thing of intensity. The current moment, like a needle carving out a groove along the path of being, is the most focused thing of all.

  Aeson is inside me.

  In this moment, in the here and now, he is my world, my bright, piercing, turbulent anchor, ripping me apart and pulling me together with the rhythmic, pounding motion of being. . . .

  When it first happens, it is a natural consequence of all the things that came before. There is no other outcome for us in that razor-sharp moment of intimate clarity. I open myself up like the proverbial flower of the ancient ritual we’ve just gone through, because it is what I want—what I’ve wanted desperately, for so long.

  His body enters me and yes, it hurts, because although he tries to be sweet and careful and gentle in those initial moments, he is large, and he is wild, and my body must accommodate him for the first time. So, there is pain and discomfort . . . until there’s not.

  And now . . .

  Creak-creak, the great bed gives beneath us. . . . Creak-creak.

  Someone is moaning, and I realize it’s me.

  Creak-creak . . . creak-creak. . . .

  Faster, brighter, accelerating, sweet warmth rises inside.

  My Amrevet Dress lies in pieces—spilled individual pearls and entire strands of beads broken, dancing on the coverlet all around us with every rocking thrust. I can see them with my head turned, as I grip his biceps, his shoulders, laboring along with his movements.

  And then suddenly, in just a few ragged heartbeats, it is over. He stops breathing then comes so hard that I am left reeling, like a small boat tossed by a storm. He is done, but I’m still a violent molten river without relief. And now I am full of his hot current flowing thick inside me.

  Hot and fertile. . . .

  Breathing hard, he collapses against me, his muscular body covering me, still inside me, radiating heat. . . . His labored breath scalds my neck.

  “I’m sorry, Gwen . . .” he pants as he lies on me. “So sorry! Next time . . . will be better, I promise. I—”

  Trembling, molten, my need unresolved. . . .

  I stroke his forehead and jawline, brushing back moist tendrils of his golden hair as his weight settles on me, blending into me, since there are no cell membranes between us.

  “It’s okay,” I say gently, speaking with some difficulty. My own breath catches, because I feel him still inside. “I know how long it’s been for you . . . so long.”

  “No,” he gasps, turning his face up to look at me with impossible, intimate eyes. “It’s that I’ve wanted you for so long.”

  And as I exhale with a shudder of desire, I feel his warm, muscular arms surround me with tenderness. They are so loving and warm, squeezing me possessively, causing me to moan. . . . And in the next heartbeat he raises himself up effortlessly with his elbows, staring trustingly into my eyes, and begins to move within me again.

  This time, pleasure builds in an uninterrupted sequence. It overtakes my mind with blinding-white intensity—and soon transports me.

  With a sweet, gradual awareness, and an indrawn breath, I emerge out of a heavy, dreamless sleep. Warmth—there is great warmth all around me. . . .

  I am lying in Aeson’s arms, my face against his chest, cheek pressing into his skin, one arm flung around his torso. His own powerful arm is wrapped around my lower back, and our legs are entangled—just as our long hair is a mutually tangled mess, his gold filaments mingling with my brown. His eyes are closed, lips parted, and he breathes regularly in deep sleep.

  We are nude, except for a light sheet covering us negligently, crumpled and twisted in places as we’ve moved and shifted—again and again, during our intimate activity—multiple times throughout the night.

  It must be morning, because the nature of the light around us has changed. It is now coming from the outside, beyond the ethereal translucent cocoon of curtains surrounding our gre
at bed, seeping in with cool whiteness of daylight instead of warm flickering firelight. The tiny floating orb flames have gone out, extinguished overnight. . . .

  As I stir, I feel my husband’s strong heartbeat, and then I sigh with complete and utter satisfaction and press my lips against his skin in a soft kiss.

  Aeson senses my movement, my intimate touch, and wakes up with a light snore and a deep, relaxed in-take of breath. He then opens his eyes and looks at me with a smile, blinking with sleep.

  “Nefero eos,” I whisper, stretching one arm, sliding it sensually along his chest, then his neck and jawline.

  He sighs with pleasure at my touch. “Nefero eos . . . im nefira . . . amreve.”

  I pause, raising my head, then I pull myself up, my body sliding higher against his body to look down into his eyes with wonder. “Amreve. . . .” I echo his words.

  Amreve means “lover” in Atlanteo. This is the first time that Aeson has called me that, instead of his usual amrevu, or “beloved.”

  “Yes,” he replies. And suddenly he pulls me further up along his chest, then takes my face between his hands and kisses me, hard.

  At once, I feel what has now become a very familiar surge of desire.

  We kiss deeply, then come apart for breath, and he says, looking intently into my eyes, “How do you feel?”

  I laugh, then smile playfully and put my chin down on his jaw. “Great, wonderful. And a little sore . . .” I whisper, as his breath tickles my cheek.

  “Only a little, I hope,” he says, running his fingers through my tangled hair, then gently tugs my earlobe.

  I think about it and realize that I’m indeed quite sore down there—and not just a little.

  “It’ll pass,” I say with a grin. “With more practice.”

  “Seriously—you’ll tell me if it gets too much,” he says, examining my face with some concern. “Such as last night. Your first time—I’m worried that I hurt you.”

  “Oh, you did not,” I say, twisting one of his golden locks around my finger. “It was all good. Very, very good, my Imperial Husband.”

  His smile returns, a little fragile, a little embarrassed. And then his other hand wanders up and he cups my breast.

  I sigh in pleasure, leaning into his touch, then—as he continues to fondle me—I notice the smudges and streaks of rose-colored lip gloss all over his cheeks and jaw.

  “Oh, dear . . . my noohd is all over your face again,” I say, and use my fingers to rub his cheek and the side of his nose to remove traces of my cosmetics. It’s probably futile, considering how badly both of us need a shower. . . .

  He pauses in amusement and his brows rise. Then he lifts up the sheet and glances down at himself, pretending to examine his own lower body. “Hm-m-m,” he says. “That’s not the only thing your noohd is all over.”

  My jaw drops in silly outrage. “Aeson!” I exclaim, swatting him.

  And then I blush furiously, remembering what I was doing with my mouth last night, and how much of my noohd is all over certain parts of him.

  Ahem. . . .

  Aeson watches my flaming face and my reaction and laughs with absolute, unrestrained joy.

  That’s when I swat him again, and continue doing so, striking him with both hands in exaggerated drama, while he in turn continues laughing and saying “ow” and even lifts his hands to cover himself, shrinking back in mock terror from my so-called beating.

  Really? He thinks he can escape me?

  My husband is a very silly man.

  It’s remarkable how much levity and joking can happen after such an intense series of events. For the next few minutes we giggle and tickle each other, until Aeson chokes from laughter and starts coughing. He looks around and sees a tall carafe with water and two glasses on a small side table near the great bed. It’s something I didn’t even notice being there last night—not that’s in any way remarkable, all things considered.

  “Thirsty?” he asks me, clearing his throat again and starts to rise from the bed. “I’m parched. . . . Really dehydrated.”

  “I bet you are . . .” I say with a meaningful widening of my eyes, followed by another silly giggle.

  In reply Aeson silently leans back in toward me and then suddenly grabs my butt.

  I squeal and wiggle out of his grasp . . . and then I grab his.

  Nicely toned, hard, muscular. . . .

  Oh, dear lord, we’re never getting out of this bed, are we?

  But of course, eventually, we do. We gulp down some badly needed liquid, then find our way out of the sheer fabric curtain jungle around the bed (giggling, and unintentionally ripping quite a few gauzy sheets) and locate the master bathroom adjacent to the grand suite.

  Then it’s time for more lingering and using the facilities, as we get into the seriously high-tech, modern, retrofitted shower in this otherwise ancient master suite. The shower is huge, tiled with beautiful eggshell-cream marble veined in gold, with so many jet heads everywhere—and Aeson turns all of them on.

  Let’s just say that in the next half hour we spend some amazing and very intimately active moments under all that cascading, glorious water. . . .

  When we finally return, squeaky clean and wrapped in oversized towels, the Imperial Crown Prince’s Master Bedroom has been transformed. While we were frolicking in newlywed fashion, the Imperial servants took down the pesky Amrevet Night ritual curtains, changed all the sheets on the great bed, and laid out several changes of clothing for us.

  Okay, I’m probably never going to get used to this invasion of privacy, but at least they were discreet. . . .

  Aeson and I consider getting back on the bed, then look at our choice of clothes.

  “I am kind of getting hungry,” I say, going for the clothing. “Eos bread?”

  And Aeson uses his wrist comm to call us some food.

  We get dressed just in time for the Imperial cooking staff to arrive and set up their food station.

  I find that I’m indeed starving, which makes so much sense since I’ve barely eaten in the last few days leading up to the Wedding Day. Aeson appears to feel the same way as he heartily chews his savory durzaio buttered rolls, mashed djebabat with thick dollops of spicy gravy, and freshly baked, medoi fruit-filled eos pie, and takes deep swallows of lvikao to wash it down.

  “Um-m-m, so good after all that exertion,” he repeats with a wicked smile, looking at me in-between ravenous bites.

  I smile at him blissfully and take a deep, sweet swallow of my own lvikao, letting its pastry-shop aroma fill me with invigorating energy—creamy notes of what could be vanilla bean, saffron, nutmeg, marzipan, cinnamon, hazelnut, bitter chocolate and other unknown alien delicacies create a complex bouquet of flavor in my mouth.

  And then I take a deep breath, because I need to tell him something, and it’s best to get it over with now.

  “Aeson,” I say softly. “You know about my choice of two special drinks last night? The Imperial Bride must drink one of them before the Amrevet Night.”

  He pauses eating and watches me. “Ah. . . . Yes.”

  “Well,” I say, feeling suddenly awkward. “I drank the golden goblet. . . . The one with the contraceptive.”

  He does not blink, and looks into my eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” I rush to add. “I know how much you want babies, but I just—I don’t think I’m quite ready yet, and we’ve only just—”

  “Good,” he says, interrupting me gently, then reaches across our small table and caresses my fingers with his large, warm hand. “I’m glad you took the contraceptive.”

  My lips part. “You are?”

  He chuckles. “Of course. Becoming a mother—or a father—is the greatest responsibility I can imagine, and there is a right time for it.”

  I nod with a bashful expression. “I’m so happy you are okay with it.”

  “Look, we talked about it before, and I’ll repeat it again,” he says, continuing to smile at me. “It’s always your choice. Always. Please, don’
t ever let yourself get pressured into this kind of decision by anyone—and especially not by any Imperial expectations. And that includes me.”

  “Okay . . .” I say, still a little uncomfortable. “Though, when we talked about it, I thought—I mean, it was in general terms, and I thought maybe you were just being generous to suggest abstinence, and it wasn’t otherwise even possible to have such a choice. Stupid me—I didn’t know yet about how it actually works, or about the special Kassiopei contraceptive. Not until I met with your Mother, did I understand any of it.”

  Aeson looks at me with a world of gentleness. “To be honest, I wasn’t sure how that aspect works either, not until I had my own talk with the Venerable One.”

  “Yours or mine?”

  Aeson’s eyes widen slightly. “I can’t even begin to imagine the horror of having this particular talk with yours! The deities had mercy on me—it was the Venerable Darumet who gave me the Imperial Husbandly facts.”

  “I see.” I start to smile at his expression. And then I feel a wave of relief.

  “Besides, these are somewhat uncertain times,” he continues. “And bringing new life into our chaotic, unstable world is not to be done lightly. So, waiting is a really good idea.”

  I am brimming with warmth as I gaze into his eyes. “I want you to know that I want to have children—eventually. I really do, so. . . .”

  “I know.” He squeezes my fingers lightly, sending a sweet pang of sensuality through me. “Now relax, stop worrying about it, eat and drink, my sweet Imperial Wife. And be sure to get an adequate supply of that very potent drink for the coming days. . . . I promise, amreve, you will need it.”

  At this point it must be said that contemporary Atlanteans don’t have the same concept of “honeymoon” that many contemporary Earth cultures do. Instead of going on a multi-day or even multi-week trip to some romantic destination for sightseeing, lovemaking, and special time together, Atlanteans—or at least the people in Imperial Atlantida—take up to three days after the Wedding to relax and be intimate in the comfort of their own homes, and then settle back into their normal daily lives. Yes, they often move in together, establish other residences, even change jobs, or otherwise slightly rearrange their lives. But distant trips right after the Wedding are simply not a part of it.