Chapter 2 #2
“Ashara, dear.” He passed me the flagon, but I waved it away.
She’d smell it on my breath—breath that was already laced with the salt of him.
“When isn’t there pox in winter? What about four phases past when he tripped on his cloak?
The Blood God didn’t see fit to allow him to foretell that, either?
I’m surprised it wasn’t flayed, seam by seam, and pinned to the doors. Such a turncoat, after all.”
He laughed at his exceptional wit, and I laughed too, picking at the burn-riddled rag he’d laid out like a rug. I thought of the owl and wished it dead. Then I thought of Adelaide and wished her alive. If the Blood God had but an inkling of mercy, perhaps the latter would be granted.
Undeterred, Demetri nudged the flagon to the closed purse of my lips. I batted him away, readying to knock it from his hands, but as I steadied his wrist, I caught sight of his jacket, and the white tunic blooming from its side.
“Demetri, your sleeve!” By the pits. I dragged his arm closer. “It’s ripped.”
“Snagged on a nail.”
Lie. I waited, brows raised.
“Caelius tore it,” he finally admitted. “Trying to remove my hand from his throat.”
“Wh—”
“By the Other, Ashara. Are you my mother or…”
I may have fussed like one, but we were the same age. Born on the same day, same hour, despite different mothers. Ordained to be offered at the same time, too, though at least later than his sister. I squished the thought like the flea it was, though it always continued to bite.
Eight cycles left.
I itched with the knowledge of it.
“You know I never indulge in a bit of light choking unless it’s thoroughly deserved.” He smirked, avoiding giving words to our sad, sad truth. We had but eight cycles left to steal a few small moments before our bloods were demanded.
“What did Caelius say to warrant a bit of light choking this time?”
Demetri sniffed, cheeks turning a distinct shade of I’ve-been-caught red. “Oh, just being an irksome bastard.” Making to stand, he kicked at a pile of ash, disrupting it with the tip of his boot.
“Demetri?”
Eyes cautious, the markers of shame dented his brow.
“Well?” I resisted the urge to place both hands on my hips, already hearing the ghost of his accusations—“Gods, darling, so like your mother.”
“Just the usual taunts about how I’ll remain, ah, fuck…what was it? ‘A cockless eunuch who will die a virgin and never know’—his words, not mine, darling girl—‘the warm embrace of a cunt.’”
“By the First.” I wrinkled my nose, returning to prod at the embers.
Laurels, like us, selected to die by the Dendralis from twenty to thirty winters, were closely monitored in our enclaves, unchaperoned mingling between the opposite sexes strictly forbidden.
“We must safeguard your moral dignity,” Druid Capriche lectured every so often.
“You are to observe the disciplines of flesh until your offering, as a way to honour Him. To show obedience to His whims.”
Honour, discipline, obedience, more often than not, were just practicality dressed in fancier clothes. I reasoned the truth was simpler: it would mean no parentless children to run amuck in the streets, left to be cared for and fed.
“Caelius’ words, Ashara. Not mine. Never mine.” His playfulness turned solemn as he threaded his hands in mine, sitting beside me on our rug. “You know I’ll honour our promise.”
We locked eyes, the echo of what we promised that day hovering between us like a ghost: we would spend our final night together. In every way.
It was a well-known secret that the final pilgrimage for laurels could be somewhat…liberating, for those permitted to have reached adulthood. Inside the Grand Templum, the rulebook changed. What need was there to deny matters of the flesh when all would be carrion come the morn?
I’d do it now, if he’d allow it. Here, on the floor, next to a dwindling fire and amongst the ashes.
Demetri would say no; he always said no, not with the penance afforded to those they inquisitioned.
Not only would my offering be enacted then and there, druid-ordained date be damned, but they’d take it from me first, the organ we’d supposedly defiled.
My hand cradled my lower stomach, palm pressing over what would never swell round with a babe.
Not that I’d want to bring another soul into this world; not when its creator was so eager to demand it straight back.
Pulling the sewing supplies from my pocket, I reached for his arm. “Let me fix it.”
He gave it to me willingly, eyes fixed on my face. Rotating his palm, I nestled it in my lap, where it sat like a tamed dove, the weight heavy but a comfort. I threaded the needle on the first try, half-blind in the flickering light.
“Impressive,” he praised, flashing me the points of his canines.
Gods, he kissed like a heathen. I’d have one last one before we went our separate ways.
Just one more before the next Seventh Day.
Stitching a loop into the torn ridge of his cuff, I jerked at the crunching of gravel. My hand slipped, piercing his skin.
Demetri didn’t wince, but his tanned face blanched in the firelight, his wide eyes fixated on something unknown behind me.
I stole a quick breath, not wishing to look but certain I’d have to.
Closing my eyes, I memorised the familiar feel of his hand in mine, knowing, knowing it was about to be torn from my hold.
Behind us, three acolytes loomed, their shorn skulls gleaming the colour of bone under the moon.
May the Blood God have mercy on us both, even if He’d given none before.