And thank the Other for that. “Can we mortals ever seek to truly know the will of the eternal?”
Her fingernails bit deeper.
“Is that not what druids are supposed to be,Your Holiness?” Her voice turned as cutting as her nails. “Interpreters of His divine will? His hands and mouths upon the earthly plain? Is that not what the Book of Dendralis preaches, in every parable, in every psalm?”
Thump. Thump. Thump. As regular as a crusiax drum. “It is a theory. Perhaps the annihilation of the Blood Tree was another mercy.” I rolled my tongue, washing the pith from my gums. “We will discover the truth, eventually.”
“And what of the—”
“You’ve asked your questions, Seamstress.” I tugged at her wrist, already mourning the loss of her warmth.
“Do you want to show me your face?” she blurted, refusing to lift her palm.
I froze, registering the jarring dip where my heart skipped a beat. It sputtered irregularly before returning to its natural rhythm, sure and strong. But it was enough.
My truth was not what I’d expected.
“Yes.” I tried to pluck her away.
“Why? Why can’t you? If you no longer support the Dendralis’ cause?” Her hand stuck to my chest, as if smothered in tar.
“You know why.”Never look unto me, demanded our Lord, or else never be ye saved, until the ends of the earth…“That’senough,” I demanded, giving bite to my tone. She clung on, surprisingly strong. I loathed to admit the effort it took to peel her away.
“May I feel it?” Herbaceous curiosity laced through her whisper.
“Feel it?”
“Your face,” she clarified. “If…if I cannot see you, can I touch you? I must check for horns, you see, lest you be a demon sent to turn me from the will ofour most gracious Father.”
Though she meant it in jest, the tartness of unripened cherry betrayed her nerves.
“It is a strangeness, to not know your—”
“Yes.” The word slipped from me before I understood why, though regret chased its tail.
I held my breath, ready to put an end to this absurdity, but then she raised her hand.
It was so gentle at first, just a whisper of contact. I dared not move, lest any sudden shift frighten her away—a hunter’s stillness when the doe pads into the clearing.
Her fingers found the length of my jaw, tracing the bone left, then right. The tips of them brushed against the trimmed hair of my beard, as if testing its length. I likely needed a shave; a difficult feat without the aid of a mirror. She lingered not at my lips, having spent enough time there already. Instead, she pressed at the bow and dragged towards the tip of my nose, turning it upward. I smiled as she explored its bridge, circling lightly and mapping its shape. It tickled.
Eventually, her touch drifted towards the peak of my cheek, her thumb braced along my jaw. With a measured breath, Irallied every shred of restraint not to lean fully into her touch. Mad. Most definitely, mad.
The heat followed her fingers, less concentrated than at my heart, but still intoxicating.
Fuck it.
I angled my face into her hand, a silent invitation.
But the curve of her hand retracted, and for a moment, I thought her perusal was done. Then, something skimmed over my lashes and pressed softly upon the flesh of my lids.
I let them fall shut and drew in a shuddering breath. To the pits with the council. I would remain here forever.
Her hand slipped into my hair, joined by another, each of them pushing it back from my brow. She tugged it, and a ripple travelled from the base of my neck downward—down, down—until sitting became distinctly uncomfortable. I needed her to stop.
I was about to tell her such, when her fingers kneaded my temple, and I laughed.Checking for horns.
After an eternity and no time at all, she withdrew.
