Epilogue Sadaré #2
Isha never releases a soul from his grasp once he has it.
Melé and I were the sole exceptions that I know of in all the eons he’s been the god of death, and he didn’t have a choice with me, since I became a god myself.
Even if he would allow it, a mortal soul without a body would have nowhere to go outside of the underworld except back to the source of all life to be subsumed, unless Horizon intervened like they did with Melé, when they made her a god as well.
And Horizon only did that because they loved her.
For Maro, they would have no reason. Unless Isha gave them one. Begged them.
“He’s mortal?” I ask, breathless.
Isha nods. “I wanted him to live, to grow, as he wasn’t able to do. He will have a full life… and a family. Including Melé—and you, if you wish. Or you can simply let him live out his days, knowing he had the chance.”
“What about you now, with regard to him?”
He shrugs, his lips tipping into a slight frown, which I can’t help tracing with my eyes.
“He’s my son. I will, of course, watch over him during his time in the mortal realm.
Visit him when I can. And when he returns to the underworld as a grown man, he’ll always have a place at my side, if he so desires.
” His own eyes find Maro again, softening at the corners in a way I’ve never seen.
“He’s quite the skilled harpist now. I’ll miss his playing until he returns to me. ”
I shake my head, but not in denial—more disbelief. “Why? Why are you doing this?” Why are you here? I don’t ask, even if the words are pressing against my lips.
He holds my gaze, making my stomach flip, despite myself. “To apologize. I’m not assuming that this will be enough. That anything will ever be enough. But I apologize for the grievous hurt I caused you. Both of you.” He tips his head at Daesra. “It was beneath me, and you deserved better.”
Isha doesn’t ask me to forgive him. Which makes it even harder not to—weakening the walls I’ve built. Letting the pressure in my chest grow until I can feel the cracks inside of me ready to burst open.
“Maro is of course my responsibility,” he adds, “and it’s not my intention to force any obligation upon you—” He sounds almost worried, as if he perhaps made a misstep.
“Isha,” I cut him off. “Shut up.” But the words have no bite. “This is perfect.”
His shoulders relax in silent relief.
Maro’s life is a gift, but all the more valuable because it’s not just for me, but for Maro, for Melé, and even for Isha, himself. One given on the darkest night of the year during the season when nothing is supposed to grow.
“Is this why I didn’t receive anything earlier this year?” Daesra asks, a brightness to his voice despite the ready edge. “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten me.”
“How could I?” Isha looks to Daesra now, still tentative. Until he smirks down at Daesra’s boots. “I see you’ve kept at least one of my gifts. They suit you.”
Daesra smirks back at him, a spark in his gaze. “And I see you kept your own face this time. It suits you.”
For a moment, no one moves in the suddenly charged air. I blow out a breath, trying to ease some of the tension. And then, like usual, I know exactly where I need to go.
“I, for one, need a drink,” I declare.
I start off into the crowd, turning only when I realize no one is following. Isha stares back at me with a question in his eyes, and Daesra stands caught between the two of us, as if waiting for my signal. I sigh and flick my head at Isha. “Come.”
It gives me no little satisfaction to command him, I have to admit. Even more when he smiles wryly, as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking—and yet still follows.
I make my way to a stall selling spiced wine, complete with rickety benches and tables under an awning in the back.
I take a seat after tossing a coin to the merchant, who hurriedly pours three clay goblets of steaming wine, serving us awed glances at the same time.
Daesra promptly sits next to me, leaning forward on the table, while Isha slowly lowers himself onto the bench across from us both, as if he’s still not convinced he’s invited.
Or as if facing his own judgment.
Leus squirms through our legs, snuffling the ground for crumbs before wedging himself between Daesra’s and my calves, staring at Isha under the table, seemingly not quite sure whether he’s friend or foe.
I’m not quite sure, either. I can’t believe we’re all sitting down together—three gods, who could be mortals on this cold yet sunny day, as if we were catching up after only a brief time apart.
Not after ruining each other and leaving broken shards in our wake.
Immortal shards we’ve been slowly piecing back together over the long years.
As soon as my wine is ready, I take a long draught despite the scalding heat.
Of course, my tongue comes away unscathed.
Daesra presses his lips together as if he’s trying not to smile, while Isha takes his time to openly study the both of us, slowly twisting the stem of his goblet between his fingers.
Despite whatever humility he had in approaching us, he still exudes self-possession—as apparently undying as he is—like the steam from our cups.
He has been a god for far longer than either of us have.
I feel suddenly warm under his watchful, flinty gaze, and I tell myself it’s just the wine. Even so, I loosen the fur stole around my shoulders, and Isha’s eyes shoot like arrowheads to my bared throat.
My jaw clenches around my silent curse. I forgot about the necklace, and of course he would notice it.
While I didn’t want anything of his clasped around my neck ever again, the beauty of the piece eventually won out over my resistance.
Vivid emeralds and deep burgundy rubies—suspiciously matching the colors of Daesra’s and my eyes—ripple in a tapering curtain down my chest, interlocked with delicate silver links like a fisherman’s net.
Or perhaps a spider’s web. At the very bottom, there’s a single black pearl dangling like a large teardrop.
“Yes, I kept it,” I snap, sounding more flustered than irritated for my liking. “I suppose it was pretty enough.”
“I’m pleased,” he murmurs.
“I didn’t do it for you. It simply looks good with this dress.” Never mind that I’ve worn the necklace rather often, of late.
Isha leans his head to scratch his flawless cheek where I imagine there’s no itch whatsoever. They’re both trying not to smile, damn them.
“I’m pleased nonetheless,” he says when he seems to regain control of his mouth. When he drops his hand, his fingers land near Daesra’s on the tabletop. Daesra sears him with a warning glance.
Even so, the tip of Isha’s finger gives the barest twitch, brushing his minutely, even though Isha’s eyes stay locked on me.
It’s Daesra’s turn to look flustered, though he doesn’t withdraw his hand, as if to stubbornly maintain that he was there first and refuses to retreat.
Or perhaps because he doesn’t mind the contact.
Isha arches a single brow at me, a slight, knowing smile on those perfect lips.
He’s both the same… and entirely different. The span of years, brief for him and long for me, seem to have changed him more than they have me.
Or maybe we’ve both changed.
Because I can’t help it. Watching Daesra and him together, even if they’re torturing each other, delights me in a way I can’t explain even to myself, as if I were facing my own table of brightly colored toys—and it ignites a ferocious heat in my core.
Isha suddenly focuses on me with scorching intensity, his eyes narrowing, his head cocking, his nostrils flaring.
Which means he knows exactly the reaction he’s wrought in me.
I could squeeze my thighs together, give in to the mortification that threatens by burying my face in my hands or perhaps fleeing, but instead I just arch a brow right back at him, a grin spreading over my face. “What? Apparently I’ve found my sadistic side since last we met.”
Daesra gives a rueful chuckle, though he’s still eyeing Isha’s hand next to his as if it were that scorpion. “That she has.”
Isha rests his chin on his other fist. “Does the thought of my own punishment please you, then?” he asks in a contemplative voice, his tone huskier than before.
I feel the memory of his stubble brushing my skin, his nose tracing my throat as he inhaled, as potently as if he were doing the same to me now. I hear his past words like a low growl in my ear. Punishment… pleases you. I can smell it. I must admit, that pleases me.
Indeed, not all memories of him are bad.
“Perhaps,” I say, as casually as I can manage with the fire roaring higher inside me.
“I could argue that the torment I’ve been left in has been punishment enough, but we both know that’s not true,” he says, and then pauses. “Would you like to punish me?”
I hum as if in thought, pursing my lips and tapping my finger on the table. Isha’s eyes drop to my mouth, a predatory gleam in them despite what he’s offering. Even in trying to surrender, he’s somehow still domineering at the same time.
Bastard.
Inside, the heat is consuming me.
Once more, I know where I need to go. Where we need to go. The path that I didn’t want to seek appearing before me in invitation. Daesra looks at me, knowing me as well as I know myself—and all the possibilities open to us—as I look back at him.
Can we? he asks me silently. Should we?
I stand abruptly, stepping around the table before extending my hand to Daesra. Isha only watches us, unmoving, waiting on my word—my judgment—until I give Daesra a barely perceptible nod and he decisively extends his hand to the god of death with a smug smirk.
Who stares at it for a long moment.
“Truly?” Isha asks. The word is faint. The ghost of long-dead hope.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever let you touch me again,” I say bluntly. “But maybe you can touch him, and he you.” I tip my head at Daesra. “If he wishes.”
Oh, how Daesra wishes. His gaze burns with it, the deep red of his irises no longer hidden. Isha slowly takes his hand and rises, staring back at him with equal fire in those iron-colored eyes, no longer cold.
There has always been this push and pull between them, just as there has been between me and Isha. And of course, first and foremost, between me and Daesra.
Which is why this just might work.
Perhaps we’re all giving each other gifts this solstice, with the longest night yet to come.
“Let’s start with more wine, shall we?” Daesra suggests with a toss of his head, turning toward home in the dwindling afternoon light.
A glimpse of his disguised horns flashes in his hair—more of his composure slipping away.
He drops Isha’s hand to take mine, muttering under his breath, “I’m going to need it. ”
I smile at him, my heart overflowing with a love as eternal as we are.
Leus barks excitedly—obliviously—leaping and bounding between us before racing onward through the market, his black tail flashing.
When Isha moves to follow, I casually loop my other arm to catch his elbow, much to his utter astonishment—the arm that he replaced after Daesra took it, now mine once more—as if we were old friends out for a stroll.
I did just say I might not let him touch me…
but I didn’t say anything about me touching him.
The god of death looks down at me in something like reverence, as though the sight of our loosely and rather decorously entwined limbs is the most precious thing he’s ever beheld, despite what we’ve shared in the past. A laugh bursts out of me with the long-held pressure in my chest, finally freed, the sound dancing like sunlight in the crisp winter air.
With Daesra supporting me on one side, I glance up at Isha on the other, feeding his own words back to him from the start—what feels like a lifetime ago, never mind that this is still just the beginning. “I may very well enjoy this.”
Without missing a step, Isha smiles softly and murmurs, “Then take me as you wish.”