Chapter 20 One Bed
Two flames, united, may cast a brighter light, but their dance can be a fierce one.
Marriage, a tapestry woven with devotion, can also bear threads of discord.
Let not the merging of souls extinguish the spark within but remember, even the gentlest wind can fan embers into a blaze that consumes all it touches.
—The Tenet of Duality from the Book of Hush
Ialmost disappear into the guest room until Sora lays out the dinner feast. What a waste it would be to miss out on something so delectable just because I'm irritated with Mòr and her vague, unhelpful antics.
I know the slop that waits for me on the Nightingale.
Sludgy oats and hard tack. Strong rum or watery ale.
Traveling to Staygia could take weeks. I think I've earned one last good meal.
Sora lends me another change of clothes before the men arrive. The material is feather-light and pale blue. Irritatingly, it’s another gown, but this one is much simpler and more comfortable, so I drape it on with little complaint.
I'm sitting at the table, plate heavy with roasted boar, wild carrots cooked soft and seasoned to perfection, tiny golden potatoes bathed in a garlic butter sauce, fresh bread, and a small dish of stewed cinnamon apples glazed with honey and cream.
There's endless pitchers of wine and a kettle of jasmine tea at my request.
I eat quickly, hardly taking the time to look up from my plate or savor the fantastic flavor combinations of the rich food.
When the crew sweeps in like a riptide, I trade my tea for wine, pouring heavy.
They inhale plate after plate of the meal, knock back cups of wine and ale to chase it down.
Even Rhyland joins in, drinking more than I expect.
Maybe he’s like me and would rather forget this night entirely.
“We should have brought Dorian and his strings up. Could go for a dance right now, eh?” Reave lightly elbows me from his perch at my right, sunglow eyes flashing against the fire.
“You don’t want to see me dance,” I murmur around a sip from the edge of my cup, only to find it empty.
I move to fill it again but Sora closes her hand over the rim. “You’re already drunk. At this rate you won’t be able to complete the cleansing ceremony.” She hisses it low and quiet, but I still feel Rhyland’s eyes lift to us.
“I don’t care about the cleansing ceremony.” I shrug and tip the pitcher of wine directly toward my lips for a gulp of the succulent pomegranate flavor.
Sora practically growls as she yanks it from my hand, sloshing some on the white table cloth. She stands, addressing the unruly group around us. “I think we should call it a night, don’t you agree, Mór?”
The goddess tilts her head, leaning back from her place strewn across Briggs’ lap. Her eyes are dark mist, heavy as she grins. “Already? We so rarely get guests and they’re leaving tomorrow.”
“Exactly,” Sora snaps. “Early tomorrow. They need a good night's rest and at this rate it’ll be pounding headaches for everyone.”
Mòr sighs but stands up, dusting crumbs off the front of her blouse. “I remember when you used to be fun, Sora.”
“Oh, you have to be thinking of someone else,” Reave laughs from beside me.
I surprise myself by laughing, too, and only stop when Sora glares daggers my way.
“I’ll get the bride safely to her room while you boys clear up,” she snaps, and tugs me so hard I nearly fall out of my seat. I startle to find Cyprian there behind me, keeping me upright.
“I can give you a hand,” he murmurs.
Sora doesn’t argue and we head down the hall to the sound of Aizen and Archer fighting over the last of the whiskey.
I want to tell Sora and Cyprian that an escort isn’t necessary, but I can tell I went too far on Mòr’s dangerous nectar. Even with Cyprian’s strong, ink-stained fingers wrapped tight around my arm, I stumble and sway slightly.
“Sit with her a moment, would you? I’m going to grab a nightgown,” Sora huffs once we reach the guestroom and they’ve successfully dumped me onto the bed. The single, full-sized thing tucked against the wall…waiting to be shared.
Cyprian nods, settling onto the edge next to me. His sandy hair gleams under the light of the oil lamp fixed to the wall. He tucks some of it back behind his ear, foot tapping over the wooden floor.
“Do you ever stop moving?” I hiccup.
A small smile tugs at his mouth and he stills his foot. “Sorry. Most of the time I don’t realize I’m doing it.”
I can only chuckle and lean into the headboard, willing the room to stop spinning. My brain is light and fuzzy again; it feels like I’m floating somewhere far away and I enjoy it, maybe too much. “One of my sisters is the same way. Always moving. It seems exhausting.”
“Where is she now?” The question is soft, tentative. Innocent enough, but I instantly feel myself clam up. It reminds me of the questions Harlow had asked, once upon a time. When I first met and trusted him.
What are your sisters like? I should love to meet your family…. Unlike then, I now know what his true intentions were.
“She’s far, far away. They all are.”
There’s a finality to my answer that makes him go quiet. A silence that seeps between us, taints the air.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs after a few minutes, fiddling with the brown leather bracers secured around his wrists.
My eyes close and I press further into the wood of the headboard, letting it cool my cheek. “Don’t be. They’re better off this way.” Without me, I want to add but don't. It's too telling. Too personal.
“Not for that—well, yes for that—but for what you had to go through today. I know this isn’t what you wanted.”
I blink and turn to him as the cold feeling of shock slips through me, like an anchor back to the room. “How could you possibly know what I want?”
He chuckles, and I catch the faintest imprint of a dimple beneath his sharp cheekbone.
“Aside from the fact that it’s written all over your face?
Rhyland is transparent with us sea-forged, his chosen inner circle.
He told us this marriage is not a lasting one.
Not a match made from love.” He reaches for me, inky fingers ghosting over my hand.
“I want you to know that I don’t agree with it, and I’m here to help if you should ever need anything. ”
A surprising pang of shock takes root behind my breastbone and spreads out to the rest of me. He’s right, of course, that this isn’t what I wanted, but the fact that the Pirate’s telling his crewmates about it…as though he’s embarrassed to be….
Harlow’s words ring cruely in my ears. Half breed.
Useless. Followed by what Sora said earlier: Talon deserves a woman who knows how to love him.
I think of the way the elders spoke about me, as though there was something wrong with my very existence.
Of course a god wouldn’t want it known he willingly entered into a union with me.
It’s no wonder the sky shook with Ireus’ fury at the ceremony.
This must be so humiliating for Rhyland. For all of the gods.
Well, it isn’t a godsdamn picnic for me, either. I want to snarl the words at Cyprian, to wipe the pitious look off of his face, but Sora sweeps back into the room and he straightens, pulling his hand away from mine and rising to his feet.
“I should be going. Have a good night, Avalon.” He dips his head, but his eyes linger on mine before he walks out of the room.
A brief suspicion coats Sora’s face but she doesn’t comment on it.
She’s got a nightgown, towels strewn over her arm, and carries a wide, steaming basin.
The aroma wafting from it takes me off guard.
It’s lovely, a scent I can’t even describe because I’ve never been met with the likes of it before.
It must be made from herbs only grown here on Elaris.
She sets it on the carved dresser, laying the towels out beside it before coming to me where I’m still staring after Cyprian’s curious shadow.
“Let’s get you changed.”
I sit at the very edge of the bed, head cleared some now that I’m alone with my own thoughts.
The room is quiet, but a low call from a bird comes in through the open window, riding on a gentle breeze.
Strange how past its pokey exterior, everything in Elaris feels calm and gentle, like coming home after a long time away.
There’s always a soft breeze that smells of rain.
Always a warm fire burning somewhere. Always tea and fresh bread ready.
Mòr has created a paradise. The thought of leaving tomorrow is unsettling, but maybe it’s because I feel closer to Aurorae here than I’ve felt in such a long time.
The door creaks, startling me out of my reverie, and my eyes jerk toward the sound.
Rhyland enters quietly. Without a word, he goes to the dresser, unlacing his boots to tug them free and tuck neatly beside it.
He shoulders off his leather coat, sheds the vest and a black sash from his waist. Undresses until he’s in nothing but a loose undershirt and bloomers.
He turns to me then, eyes cool and guarded.
“We should get this over with so we can sleep.”
I nod even though angry words burn behind my tongue.
I can’t get what Cyprian said to me out of my head.
Why should I be upset? This is exactly what he said it was, and pretending at anything else would be worse anyway.
But now I feel more like the pathetic damsel than ever, forced into one agreement after another.
No power. No voice. Soon they’ll all know it.
With a deep breath, I stand up and move next to him in front of the basin that’s still steaming lightly.
“How does this work?” I eye the mixture, lined with lantern light so that it's taken on a gold tint, speckled with soft pink and deep purple herbs.
He lifts one of the rough cloths from beside it, dipping it into the water before lightly ringing it out. “Hold out your arm.”