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No, tonight will not be my undoing. I will not be reduced to mere violence. A scar of a soul. It will be my choice, my desire my freedom, myredoing!
* * *
When we emerge from the bathing room into the inner suite, all the Feyal-maids have disappeared. Replaced with...
“Aynfean.”
“Bainye.”
“Dairyne.”
One by one, they chant their names?aged names of our history, but it’s their appearance which leaves little doubt as tohowancient they are. Andwherethey’ve come from. Andwhosent them. Little wonder no Feyal-maids are here; these ones likely sent them scampering away, horrified.
Gryzelda’s eyes sharpen upon them, but her throat constricts, tightening in apprehension.
My breath catches in my chest. Nerve endings tickle from their skeletons gleaming silver through translucent flesh...as if infused with ghost-light. Deep shadows congregate around their eyes, nigh reducing them to hollow depths. Skin as white as moonlit water but garlanded in threads black as the deepest sea trench. Threads bound to the God of Death?to Aryahn Kryach. I can’t bring myself to return to the nickname I’d chosen. Not after what he did.
Now, I ridicule myself for my mouth drying, throat growing thick, chest warming. For appreciating this gesture because they are here for one reason.
“We are Death maidens,” Aynfean declares, her voice eerie as claws scraping crypt stone.
Dairyne’s voice is more of a death rattle when she adds, “We are here to prepare you for the ceremony. By the command of Lord Aryahn Kryach?High God of Death!”
I tilt my chin to the shadow-mark near my collarbone, sense its chill ghosting across my flesh. “Is that so?” I almost addArybut catch myself before it leaves my lips. “Then, I suppose we shouldn’t waste Death’s time.”
I battle my rising smirk but can’t help it. Especially when the Death maidens advance and remove my robe. It tumbles to the floor in a pool of white silk. I shiver. More when their nightmary-ice hands settle upon me. Now, I’m grateful for Gryzelda who monitors my preparation, protectiveness in her eyes.
The Death maidens baptize my flesh in oil born within the god Isles! It must be starflower oil?as is only unearthed within the moonshine mines of the Isles. Because with every stroke of their hands, the liquid permeates my skin?my flesh?and honors it with the essence of the stars until all of me shimmers, ethereal. As jewels on fire.
Next, the Death-maidens rouge my lips, my cheeks, my nipples, my very sex with the nectar of heart-roses?the most infamous of Isle lust blooms. So rare, only one has ever been bestowed upon the mortal world. A legend of a maiden with the purest of souls who earned the favor of the Goddess of Lust and Love. The Sythe Queen’s Goddess. My breath turns ragged because I recognize this honor, thisfavor. My sex moistens from the acclaim, but my quickening heartbeat registers it more.
They don’t stop there.
The Death-maidens tangle their skeletal hands into my hair. I close my eyes to the ministrations, but all of me is aroused, whetted. Sensing my emotions binding to power, I open my eyes and beam, proud of my corpus roses growing around the room. The ivy bursting with buds climbs along the walls, upon the bedposts, and creeps among the furniture. Gryzelda parts her lips, awed. But she doesn’t dare interrupt the Death maidens when they arrange my hair into a flawless waterfall of curls, a storm of silver flame down my back. I can’t help my radiant smile when they pluck a few of my corpus roses and fix them into the crown at the halfway mark of the back of my head. A floral crown to a curling cascade.
Finally...the gown!
When at last they seal the gown to my frame, the Death-maidens and Gryzelda grant me a few moments alone.
I frame my hand around the bodice, inhale, and turn to face my reflection.
I fall.
Aryahn Kryach’s shade catches me, bearing me, his vaporous touch triggering me. I reinforce myself, stand taller, warning him with heated eyes.
He drifts to stand behind me, pronouncing, “You are truly the most glorious bride to grace the Citadel of Bones. To grace my Underworld,” he coos into my ear, his essence of cold but fresh Isle-dew to settle, tender, upon me.
My heart wavers between armoring itself to pounding a rapid assault against the God. And the beauty of my reflection, a mirrored Isle-Goddess. I gasp a multitude and try to steady myself, only for my hands to meet with his...with Ary’s and not the mirror as I’d intended.
“You’re. Not. Forgiven,” I express when he raises my hand to kiss, to rub his vaporous black mouth across my flesh.
A deep, familiar chortle. “Did I seek forgiveness, little wonder? Would a God ever seek forgiveness from a mere mortal girl?”
My blood rushes. But I can’t deny the fire awakening in my heart,mychoice words I will never deny. So, I lean in. I whisper temptation into the God of Death’s ear, “You will fall to your knees and beg my forgiveness,Ary.”
A deathly hand cups my cheek. I flinch at the thought of him claiming my mouth again. But he lingers. Those hollow dusky cavities of eyes gaze into mine.
“You are the splendor of eternity,” he whispers, and my breath stalls, adrenaline impales my blood, and I part my lips. Aryahn Kryach smiles.
