Chapter 17
Sorrow
Envy winces, the press of their bodies visibly afflicting his ribs. It’s proof that he should back off. He shouldn’t be clasping her naked like this.
Yet the broad expanse of his torso against her breasts isn’t what provokes another clench in her pussy. It’s when his forehead lands against hers, the gesture bordering on playful.
Too late, Sorrow registers her hands landing on his shoulders. For all intents and purposes, she has attached her fingers to the muscled ramps as if letting go means she’ll fall.
She doesn’t want to fall. She will never fucking fall.
To an outsider, they must look affectionate. However, that outsider would be very wrong. She reduces this to a horny whim, because Envy takes joy in horny whims.
With his cock still braced against her clit, the pride god raises his head, those eyes lowering to half-mast. “Do you still think we should be friends?” he rasps. “Do you think that’s all we can handle?”
“I think that’s a lot to handle,” Sorrow professes, winded. “I think handling it will keep us pretty busy, so I think we should give it a try, and I think we should start now, because I think if you don’t let me go, I think your other cheek will get smacked.”
“I think I should call your bluff. I think I should ask you again. Is friendship the most we can handle?”
“It’s the most this war can handle.”
Envy dissects her poker face. Like a clairvoyant, he picks apart every chink, his demeanor shifting. All at once, some type of burden strains his features, as if he’s seeking confirmation of her statement. In fact, Sorrow would call his expression repentant, which doesn’t track.
After a moment, the god grunts and releases her. Sorrow floats backward, plagued by the aching throb at her slit, whereas the promiscuous god appears less than affected.
In reality, they don’t really want each other and have made that abundantly plain. This is merely their instincts hankering for a convenient method of relief, dealing with an itch when there’s no one else around to scratch it.
Still, now that it’s left her mouth, what Sorrow had said about this war doesn’t actually feel right. If they want the upper hand in this conflict, they should take the legend seriously. What’s more, they shouldn’t let Malice and Wonder’s struggle to find that legend be in vain.
In a perfect world, it would be doable. The problem is their hearts can’t be controlled that way.
Envy’s expression folds like a house of cards. He nods, deliberates something, and fixes her with a scandalous grin. “Friends show each other their playgrounds. Do you want to see the rest of mine?”
No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no—
“Yes,” she says.
Because that’s what a friend would say.
Sorrow averts her gaze while Envy sloshes out of the pool and steps into his pants.
Once dressed, he extends his hand to her.
It’s a gentlemanly action, because Envy prides himself on gallantry and refinement.
Regardless of his promiscuity and penchant for sex parties, he’ll offer his arm, open the door, and pull out the chair.
It’s usually a form of role play for this god.
Be that as it may, Sorrow wavers. Stumped, she examines his hand as if the offer is a prank, as though someone has dared him to woo the loner.
Envy cocks his head. “One, sheepishness doesn’t become you. Two, I don’t have eternity.”
Despite herself, she muffles a laugh. “Three, are you sure about that last part?”
“Why? Has no one ever spoiled you like a goddess?”
The instant she winces, his eyes narrow. “Or maybe someone disappointed you to the point where common courtesy is mistrusted.” His voice tapers like the edge of a meat cleaver. “Who were they? Which casualty do I have the pleasure of disfiguring for letting you down?”
“This coming from my oldest bully. It’s a little late to play the defender.”
“We’re deities. It’s never too late for anything.”
Even so. Sorrow wasn’t a virgin before Envy, but chivalry is for the “he-loves-me, he-loves-me-not” adolescents with big dreams and even bigger, starrier eyes.
Besides, so what if she doesn’t have experience being catered to or adored by her lovers? Who needs that? It’s clingy.
“Actually, I’m waiting for you to turn around,” she says. “I appreciate the hand, but I’m not about to give you a show.”
Mercifully, Envy doesn’t comment. But he does sigh—a theatrical drawn-out expulsion of air that he inherited from his ego. Dropping his hand, he twists around, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
Sorrow climbs out of the water and hustles into her clothes.
While she’s at it, she adds another thing to her list of pleasures.
Namely, the visual of Envy’s taut ass in loose pants.
Sleek. Firm. He may as well be hiding a pair of apples under there.
By the Stars, she wants to name a holiday after that ass.
A suave chuckle reverberates from his chest. Sorrow pauses to glower at him. Shit. How the hell did he know?
When she’s ready, the god rounds on her once more, glimpsing the Merry-inspired pajamas hanging off Sorrow like an oversized suit, the hems puddling to the grass and concealing her toes.
Combined with her drenched hair, she could have conjured something better.
In short, Sorrow has never looked less attractive in her life.
Yet Envy’s eyes glow like volcanic glass. “I stand corrected,” he says with relish. “By some force of magic, you look all sorts of cute in that outfit.”
“If you tell anyone about this,” she threatens, pointing at him. “If you spill to the crew about this night, or these clothes, or anything else, I will drive an arrow through your bloated skull.”
“My, my, my. Such violence from someone who wants to be friends and doesn’t care what others think of her. Just conjure your standard, ghastly attire, if you’re squeamish about pink. There’s no need to torture yourself on nobody’s account.”
So true. “Where are we going?”
For the second time, Envy takes her hand.
For the second time, Sorrow lets him.
Needless to say, the bastard is gloating, basking in the knowledge of how hard and long he made her come. Yet at least Envy’s unaware of the aftershocks assaulting Sorrow’s cunt. If it were otherwise, he’d never let her live it down.
While hiking amid the cascades, the god is vigilant, ushering them toward safer locations.
He points out the secure landmarks that invoke memories.
The bath where he taught himself to swim.
The shallows where his Guide, Siren, first explained the discrepancies between egotism, conceit, and vanity.
The pond where he learned to shoot an arrow underwater.
That day, he almost speared a fish, who then bit a chunk out of his ass.
Sorrow chuckles at Envy’s wry tone. The recesses emit mist, which sprays their clothing, and a lane of rocks tracks over a running tributary. As they walk across, he peers over his shoulder in time to witness sprigs of gray escaping from her lazy bun, an appreciative smirk crooking his mouth.
They gravitate through an alcove flanked by downpours and precipitation, illuminated from above by a spool of light.
The Dark Fates possesses numerous marvels, both deadly and enchanting, from the starry cliffs to The Archives.
The latter is Wonder and Malice’s treasured landmark, now reduced to rubble after the carnage against The Fate Court.
That her friends have lost their sanctuary plagues Sorrow with sympathy.
Moreover, the possibility that Envy might lose his own sanctuary cinches her chest, a state of affairs that’s never happened before.
The path widens, the falls receding into a cove. Surrounded by a ring of water, a small island of grass presides at the center. At its peak, a tree looms, its transparent leaves covered in a brilliant glaze.
Sorrow and Envy pause at the threshold, the copse packed with ferns. More ethereal motes drift in the air, one of them landing on her thigh.
Radiance from above draws her gaze. Glancing upward, she discovers the umbrella of branches where mobiles of blue glass dangle in funnel-shaped arrangements. The effect is reminiscent of a dozen chandeliers.
But they’re not chandeliers. They’re lunar herons.
Fates. They’re sleeping, their wings emitting a prismatic glow, their slim beaks glinting blue.
Sorrow opens her mouth, but Envy’s index finger presses flush against it. “Wait,” he whispers. “They’re waking up.”
He cups Sorrow’s shoulder, urging her to squat behind a hedge. She’s glad he prevented her from speaking, because she would have said the wrong thing, made a declaration that doesn’t live up to this scene. Ultimately, she would have filled the space with noise and disturbed the setting.
“Remember our first lessons?” Envy asks in a hushed tone. “The stories about the fauna of this land?”
Sorrow nods. “About the coves where lunar herons live in packs.”
“The lectures on nature were my favorite, because nature doesn’t justify itself. I fancied how something as enigmatic and unpredictable as The Stars existed. Yet in a more tangible way, like its own form of divinity.”
“It scared the shit out of Anger.”
“But it blew my mind,” Envy admits. “I relished learning the history of nature, of anything that couldn’t be fully determined by the celestials.”
While whispering, he studies the avians, their shadows slicing across his jaw.
For once, his expression isn’t painted in a false veneer.
No, it’s just him, taking pleasure in the setting and sharing it with her.
This moment doesn’t have a greater meaning, a grand function, or a moral.
Rather, it’s just enjoyment for its own sake.
Deities are born from The Stars. Lunar Herons are born from the water, always during a new moon.
With a single glint of light, they awaken and spread their wings. According to the tales, they live near sacred pools, but no deity had ever found or witnessed such a spectacle.