Page 49 of We Were Eternal Once

You look over your shoulder to me. The rage in your eyes does not unsettle me, it fuels me. You are angry for me. You threaten this man for me.

Because you love me, even in all my imperfections.

“It took Melinoë awhile to learn the gift of compulsion,” you say softly. “I think you will be the perfect thing to practice the gift of silence on. I wonder how many times she will fail, being simpering and useless. How many times will she shrivel your tongue, just for it to regrow and her to try again? Hmm?”

For Theon I would fail over and over again. I would pretend to be just as useless as he thinks I am. No scholar. I am older than the books he worships.

“That is, unless she shows you mercy,” you consider, quirking an eyebrow at me. You turn Theon’s face with your hand, pointing it at me so he can see. “She doesn’t look very merciful right now.”

Whatever part of Theon’s face he has control over crumples. His bloody tears fall faster now, his lip quivering. Bloody spittle drips down his trembling lips.

Yes, I think. Something inside me leans into this display of love for me. I am lucky to have been found by you, someone so caring, so strong.

“The gift of compulsion was never a secret, you are just too stupid and weak to learn it,” you tell Theon. Then you look to Shimon. His back is pressed against the wall of the courtyard, his hand fumbling blindly for the door. He refuses to take his eyes off you. “This is madness,” he murmurs. His hand finally finds it and he turns to run, the gate clattering shut behind him.

“Your colleague left you,” you tell Theon, gripping his chin so tightly it starts to crack. The bones snap and Theon cries out before you reach out and steal the noise. His mouth opens but all that comes is a gurgle.

“I will teach my followers the gift of compulsion, because they have earned the right at last.” Theon sags, held aloft only by the firm grip on his chin. “You are at the mercy of my unimpressive lover. Let’s hope she is as unimpressive as you think.”

Then you let go and Theon drops to the ground and crumples. His body lays unmoving, the whites of his eyes red, his mouth opening and closing wordlessly. You turn your blazing red eyes to Ardashir. He drops to his knees, his hands clasped before him in supplication.

“My shahbanu,” he whispers, lowering himself before you. “We have witnessed your khvarenah, you reign supreme above them all.”

Essemteu and Dione mimic him. Essemteu is reverent; Dione is shocked.

But I am not.

I’ve always known what you were capable of. Some part of you lives in me, and it thrills at the prospect of this sort of power. Perhaps when Shimon tells the others, they will join us too.

“We need a new location. Find one,” you snap at Essemteu. “And take him with you. Ensure he cannot escape. If he does, you will take his place.”

The courtyard is peaceful once more.

Your lips clash onto mine, my fists ball in your dress. We are heated and heavy, our bodies moving for instant pleasure. This isn’t the slow dance of lovers, this is a lust. Your hand is between my thighs, coated with Theon’s blood. I come almost immediately. You bite into my neck, tasting me, and I come again.

I pin you against the wall, tearing off your clothes, leaving them as little more than shredded fabric. I dive between your thighs, bite along your breasts, until you must forsake a name that claims you are silent.

When we fall into our grave, we are too spent to fight the call of the sun.

“A new home, psiche mou,” you say. “This one has been defiled.”

“One none of them know about,” I say.

“I will rip the image of it from their mind,” you say into my collarbone, my neck, my hair. The dirt of our grave is cool against my naked back, the caress of a second lover. Your hand trails up my inner thigh, parting me, entering me once more.

“I will teach you all the secrets of silence,” you promise.

“You are not ordinary,” you vow.

“You are not simpering,” you affirm.

“You are mine, and you are exceptional.”

The Temple on the Hill

You kept your promise, as did the acolytes.

By the next evening, we had a new place to meet—an abandoned temple. Essemteu’s fingers traced the old walls, faded from time and disuse. He outlined the words, scrawled in a language I did not know, as though he were writing them himself.