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“Sleep, Lady Isla. You will need it for where I will take you following my Death business.”
“OurDeath business,” she clarifies while folding the blankets back upon our bed and growing corpus roses to grace the bone-wood framed pillars.
I climb in next to her and test by sidling next to her. “Of course, my bride.” I refrain from grinning even if my mask hides all my expressions. While her face is turned from me, I weave my gloveless bony hand around her waist. I will regret this. I should lock my lips, but I have never managed to control such urges. So, I continue, “I love you, Isla.”
At first, she stiffens, curls into herself more, and breathes a deep sigh. I close my eyes, heart in my throat, awaiting her response. I don’t move a muscle.
Finally, she responds, “No.”
I close my eyes. Lower my head. Listen.
“You love the idea of me, Allysteir. You love a dream. That is all. But you respect me, and it’s enough...for now.”
I listen to her yawn, then settle my brow against her shoulder as her soft snores fill our room. Not once do I drift off, but her last words echo in my head all night long.
* * *
“Oh! Corpus King!”
Since she uses her affectionate term for the first time since our wedding night, I count it as a token as Isla twirls amidst the grove of pomegranate trees, her bridal gown smacking the bark as she hastens to pick as many Isle-fruits as possible.
I remain close to the shore of the little spit of island within the Sea of Bones. No one knows of it, save for Ifrynna. Isla rushes from tree to tree. Their canopies congregate to cast shadows upon her. She disturbs countless leaves as she plucks more and more fruit. A smirk teases my lips. She samples each one, wrinkles her nose, then tosses it behind her, oblivious to the juice dripping down her throat, and trickling down her upper chest. It stains her off-the-shoulders bridal gown the color of cassock. Of mourning.
She does not mourn here. I cannot contain my deepening breath, how I shift back and forth, hopeful as she capers about the abundant grove. Collecting the bounties, she is not satisfied until she has discovered the most flawless of fruits. The pomegranate aroma cloys the air with its sensual fragrance. She cannot rid the trees of them quick enough. Whichever ones her teeth do not gore, she crushes under her bare feet. The juice reminds me of blood flushing her fair skin.
Moonlight bathes her. I approach her. When I close the distance, so my shadow covers her where she has settled upon the meadow grass, Isla acknowledges how the pomegranates have drenched her flesh. The juice plumps and reddens her intoxicating lips. Countless seeds lay strewn around her?dozens of glistening gems bowing before her presence. Ripened seeds infuse her cheeks. Her nipples peak to mirror their rouge through the dark but translucent gown bodice.
“Isla.” My throat thickens as I stare down at her, my eyes straying to where her gown has cascaded into a seductive crease between her ample thighs, confessing the shape of her sex. I clear my throat, chastising myself for my roaming eyes, for my throbbing cock, for my flesh-lust most of all.
It’s the first time Kryach growls, his essence boring into my rotted flesh.You don’t deserve to so much as blink in her direction!
And we finally have one thing in common.
I am a High God!He roars, and I wince beneath my mask, prepared to succumb to my knees from an attack. Instead, Kryach’s shadows thin, they wane instead of thickening.
Except the blood-flame eyes wake inside the skull mark upon Isla’s flesh. She arches her back as if roused by the Death God, When I make out the shades beneath her gown, I understand exactly what he’s doing. My jaw hardens, instinctive while Isla clutches the meadow grass speckled with hundreds of fallen pomegranate seeds: those twinkling Isle buds like rubied star gems.
Before Kryach can continue his ministrations, despite how Isla welcomes them, I kneel before her. I hover my hand above her cheek, wondering if it’s too intimate a region. But she licks her lips and nods, granting me permission over my silent pause. She taps my gloved finger, reminding me. Nodding, I remove the hand-mask. I brush my bony knuckles across her cheek. Lowering my voice to a similar tone as my shadow lullaby, I sing:
“May you leave the sunlight far behind
And accept my dark caress.
May you love the peace of shadow wind
For you, I must possess...”
Isla tightens her muscles, clamping her knees with a gasp; she’s battling Kryach, her heart enthralled with my dark melody. My chest hardens from this war. An all-together new and unfamiliar one when the God of Death pierces my bones with his blood fire, igniting my deepest pain. As if he’s burning my bones, inflicting a torture of deep-seated envy.
Despite the physical agony, pride kindles my heart’s fire, granting me strength to continue, to roam my hand to my bride’s juice-blemished lips, shedding bone powder in the process. Corpus roses knit along her arms as she closes her eyes, gasps long, and listens.
“May your tongue taste the sweetest wine
As day and night, I woo.
May your hands clutch my gems divine
Though none as bright as you.
