Chapter 7 Sorrow
Sorrow
There’s something very, very, very peculiar about the way she wakes up.
To start, she’s surrounded by water. With her eyelids welded shut, Sorrow registers fluid licking her lips, the taste as pure as melted crystals.
Liquid swabs her back and calves, producing a gentle lapping sound.
Either she’s drooling profusely or engulfed within a deep, dark tank.
Also, she’s not alone.
Not entirely unrealistic since Sorrow has always woken up alone. Solitude is her default even after engaging with a lover, the number of which clocks in at a resounding twelve. Though, only one stands out. And he never spent the night, never fell asleep with her, because she hadn’t allowed it.
Regardless, someone is here with Sorrow. That someone huffs and puffs like a cranky son of a bitch. That someone is moving beneath her. And that someone reeks of pretension.
Sorrow’s body slumps over an expanse of muscles that bend rhythmically against her cheek. The figure moves swiftly while shaving through the water, dipping and rising at a pace equally frantic and effortless. Under her, it’s all sleek planes and iconic speed.
Fuck. This had better be some glorious great white shark with hero impulses bearing her weight. It had better not be who she thinks—
“Get your foot off my thigh,” a baritone voice pants. “You’re pushing us down.”
“Mmmph,” she grunts.
This inspires a reluctant chuckle from her companion. “Unbelievable.”
That voice oozes down her ears like candle wax, hot and slow.
Not that she has experience with temperature, but Sorrow has lived in proximity to humans long enough to get an idea.
Also, this prick has the unnerving knack for making something like heat manifest, as if he’s learned to produce his own immortal form of warmth.
She wouldn’t put it past him. He doesn’t enjoy being left out of anything, including human capabilities that deities lack.
But seriously, why does his exhaustion have to sound obscenely sexy? Because he’s a spoiled brat blessed with more attributes than he deserves. And because, as mortals would say, her eternal life sucks. That’s why.
Nevertheless, Sorrow musters her strength and complies with the request. Her body is plastered like a starfish to her rescuer, both arms hooked around a solid throat that swallows hard.
No, she’s not riding on the spine of a celestial shark.
This is a godly form. Unfortunately, it’s a familiar one.
Even if he hadn’t spoken up, Sorrow knows how he moves, knows the cadence of him, knows the sound of this male breathless, tireless, relentless.
He’s made these noises before—above her, beneath her, behind her, inside her.
Except those lapses of sanity had been accompanied by his hands pinning her wrists above her head and his hips lunging between her shaking thighs.
Also, the noises had been wracked with pleasure instead of exhaustion.
What’s happening? Why is Envy swimming with her on his back? Why had he sounded panicked when he told Sorrow to get her foot off his thigh?
It had been a simple request. And Envy never panics.
She’d love to open her eyes and tell him where exactly she’d like to plant her foot, however her mouth can’t move. What’s more, every bone and muscle slumps like a curtain, her body drained of energy down to the atom. Finally, she recalls the reason.
The boat. The rapids. The wipeout.
Sorrow replays the scene, how a raging tide had sent her overboard, along with her weapons. The world had capsized as she’d plunged into the depths. Initially, shock had locked her joints, the realization paralyzing her.
After that, Sorrow had pulled herself together, only for a funnel of water to snatch her, the onslaught clogging her nostrils as if ejected from a syringe.
The accident had turned into an underwater combat, with her flailing and the river punching back.
She’d scrambled against its grasp, flinging her arms and kicking her limbs.
Her teeth had clenched as she fought against the vacuum.
Yet the more she did so, the more salvation receded.
As they had in the valley, memories had infested the final vestiges of awareness. Human soldiers screaming, mortal bodies dropping like flies, her arrows failing to strike them in time.
Hospital tents. Severed limbs. Cots soaked in blood.
While submerged, Sorrow had slapped at the water, fighting to outswim the nightmares. At some point, her lungs inevitably gave out. Towed under, she lost her archery to the abyss, and her vision blackened, the loss of consciousness a blessing and a curse.
Yet before that happened, she’d spotted a figure in the distance. In that brief window between survival and defeat, visibility had narrowed to a masculine silhouette, as luminous as a pinprick of light.
Like a flashing star.
Envy must have jumped into the river to save her. Sorrow loathes the idea of him playing the valiant knight, but she’s not too proud to be grateful. All the same, she’s awful at expressing thanks, so her tongue flops around in her mouth, fumbling for something indebted to say.
By the way, why is he buckling? And did she just detect a hiss of pain?
While struggling to split her eyes open, Sorrow relies on sensations. They’ve escaped the rapids, since these waters are calm. Likewise, she notes the current’s direction, then compares it with his trajectory and mumbles against his nape, “You’ll wear yourself out like this.”
“Quiet,” he seethes.
“Why? What’s your problem?”
“Silence, Nymph. Or they’ll hear us.”
That does it. Sorrow’s eyes blast open, the universe flooding her vision with the silvery white of morning stars. Her wide gaze darts from the glossy sea, to the wet layers of Envy’s mane, to the landscape at their right.
Fear splashes into her chest. “What the fuc—”
Envy reaches behind, his flat palm clapping over her mouth. Quick thinking but suddenly unnecessary. She’s not about to protest when she’s indisposed, hyperventilating into his hand.
A smooth coin of water envelopes them, with fringed trees sprouting from the surface, their roots feeding off the sand.
Ahead, a network of boardwalks and piers stretch along the shoreline, each platform crisscrossing in various directions.
In the distance, a fog-laced harbor docks ancient sailboats, gondolas, and ships.
At the ledge of each pier, circular homes perch on stilts, the shingled rooftops glowing beneath a canopy of dawn constellations. Muffled voices drift from inside, the open windows glinting with ambient light.
They’ve drifted into the Astral Sea.
Sorrow and Envy know this haven well, because this is where they grew up. It’s where they used to live, along with the enemies, who can emerge from their homes at any moment.
Fear splashes through Sorrow’s chest. At the same time, wistfulness mists in her eyes, though she can’t tell if the feeling stems from awe, fury, sadness, or jealousy. She’s pissed off and homesick. Stars, she hates this place and wants it back. And this is what it means to be shunned.
A fruity aroma wafts from inside one of the dwellings. Sorrow’s earlobes perk, detecting a friendly chuckle, a rapturous gasp, and a baleful sigh. The twang of a bowstring resounds from another area, followed by the slice of a blade being sharpened.
Armed residents. Countless deities. Gods and goddesses.
If caught, Sorrow and Envy will be taken prisoner, interrogated, and tortured.
Where is their crew? Did they survive the rapids?
Via The Stars, Sorrow calls out to them but receives no reply. It can happen, especially if deities turn their attention elsewhere, if they have other problems with which to contend.
And who knows if they’ve called out to Sorrow or Envy. She was unconscious, and Envy has been otherwise engaged.
She tries several times more. Presumably, Envy must have as well, prior to Sorrow awakening.
She licks her lips, desperate to ask what’s the plan. However, she can’t speak. Not here and now. If she’s able to discern the slightest echo from this vantage point, their people may detect Sorrow and Envy shearing through the depths.
They’re weaponless. Her ice archery is potentially at the bottom of the sea, and Envy’s glass weapons are nowhere in sight, which means both of their defenses are either adrift on the boat or have suffered the same fates.
Sorrow inhales, exhales. Yet it’s no use. Her pulse reaches critical mass, palpitations slamming into her breastbone.
Envy must feel the inner chaos against his spine. Or if he doesn’t, he certainly notices her chokehold on his throat. “It’ll be all right,” he says, the words as thin as strings.
She clings to that minor comfort and whispers, “I can swim.”
“I’d like to see you try,” he remarks while pumping his bulky arms.
“You’re wincing and grunting.”
“Hush. It’s nothing.”
“I’m slowing us down, you stubborn ox.”
“You’re as light as organza.” He winces, his abdomen seizing up for a second. “Besides, we’re almost there.”
Where? Because from Sorrow’s perspective, the only things they’re getting closer to are purgatory and certain death.
With a nudge of his chin, Envy indicates the distant landmass.
A moonlit summit crowned by a fortification that surrounds a glass dome, similar in shape to a mortal observatory.
Inside stands an ethereal telescope—what their kind call a stargazer.
A glimmering film encircles the facade, which soaks up The Stars’ radiance.
Fortune’s Crest.
The stargazer marks the center of this world, the instrument craning its neck toward the firmament.
When the celestials created gods and goddesses, those stars denied immortals the ability to procreate, but not the ability to re-create.
The Stars gave deities a tool, a means to channel the magic of rebirth.
Every star is a womb that carries the life force of future deities.
So to speak, the telescope is the umbilical cord, drawing new immortals from the sky and bringing them into being.
It’s the gateway to the life cycle of her people.
Sorrow assesses the landscape’s scabrous outline. The crew plans to journey to Fortune’s Crest and claim it as an outpost, should this crusade commence in a battle.
Or rather, when this crusade commences in battle. It’s no longer a question of if.
To say the least, getting derailed and separated has thrown a wrench into the proceedings. The hope Sorrow had felt withers like a dead leaf.
“We’re almost there?” she scoffs. “Are you serious?”
Envy spritzes water as he propels forward. “Oh, I don’t know.” He addresses the hemisphere and mocks, “Am I serious, divine creators?”
“In order to reach an unexposed trail, we’ll have to swim far out of range.”
“Again, shh.”
Sorrow snarls but bites her tongue. Being overheard is the last thing they need.
And fuck, double fuck, triple fuck. If magic weren’t so finicky, life would be simpler.
For a start, evanescing can’t happen in water.
Also, while The Court lives in a palace nestled amid the cliffs, at least one member must be nearby, occupying one of these homes.
That would explain Sorrow and Envy’s inability to vanish, such a means of escape impossible in the vicinity of rulers.
Okay. So from this immediate territory, the nearest options require taking conspicuous hiking paths. In the meantime, their crew must be in similar danger. Although Sorrow’s hardly the doting type, images cycle through her mind.
Love’s mischievous grin. Merry’s fanciful smile. Wonder’s inquisitive gaze. Andrew’s sharp stare. Anger’s passionate glower. Malice’s chaotic smirk.
“When I told you to shush, I had no idea it would work,” Envy marvels under his breath.
Sorrow swallows a lump the size of a walnut, her mind fixating on the crew. “They’re all I have.”
Envy absorbs that statement. A few leagues pass in which he forges ahead, the silence interrupted by shivering ripples and labored pants. More and more, the god sounds off-kilter. Either the breaststrokes are getting to him, or his choppy respirations have to do with something else.
“If they’re alive, they’ll be waiting,” he whispers.
Sorrow pulls herself together. “So will we.”
Quietly, she fumbles to unlace and rip off her boots. Then she slides off Envy’s back and paddles too swiftly for him to protest. Not that she would listen, and not that it’s the right time to voice objections.
Or to voice anything at all. It’s possible they’ve already said enough. Be that as it may, there’s no sign of alarm from the houses, no disturbances indicating they’ve been spotted.
The water sparkles. A fleet of lanterns float in their direction, bleeding light across the surface.
Sorrow had almost forgotten this ritual, signifiers of a new morning, their people kindling astral flames and setting them free each dawn.
The brighter the flame, the more successful their day will be.
“Huh,” Envy bitches. “If I had known I’d be traveling with a mute, I wouldn’t have bothered playing the sexy savior.”
“Now you want to talk?” Sorrow accuses while they siphon their limbs. “I can’t believe you.”
“Why not? You of all people should be acquainted with my double standards.”
“We’re not doing this now. I was minding my own business.
” Concentrating on the coastline, she makes an ornery noise.
“Even in a lethal predicament, you can’t resist tooting your horn, and whenever you don’t get your way, you piss on the moment.
Well, go ahead and flatter yourself, if that’s what it’s called.
Meanwhile, I’ll be over here, on my side of the water, fleeing for my life. ”
Envy grumbles like an entitled asshole. One minute, this prick couldn’t care less what she thinks about him. The next, he throws a hissy fit because she’s not talking. It wouldn’t kill this pride god to sacrifice attention for two seconds. At the very least until they’re out of target range.
Sorrow gasps as Envy snatches her elbow. With a muffled curse, he yanks her sideways, the water sloshing and disrupting the lanterns. In a single motion, the god jerks her under a walkway leading to one of the stilted homes, then releases her arm.
Bobbing in front of Sorrow, Envy places a finger to his mouth. In the mottled light, they stare at each other, Sorrow’s lungs stalling.
Above them, someone emits a haughty chuckle. “Nice try.”