"How long has it been, Merris? Ten years, eleven?"
"Ten, at least, Lord Prylon."
"And now look at you. So lucky. Chosen as the sacrifice for the Feast Day. Though I hardly think it is much of a sacrifice. All you need to do is bed Lady Lillandyr!"
Merris shot Lord Prylon a daring glance as the tailor set the finishing touches on his robes. He stood with his arms outstretched and his feet bare as the final cuts and measurements were made. With so many people around, he felt vulnerable, naked, and exposed. Yet he could not send them away.
Old friends came into town, people he hadn't seen in decades, perhaps longer. People he knew from when he attended medical school and from when he worked as an accountant for the royal family. Others were acquaintances and nobles that wished to rub elbows and pretend they were good, close friends just to be seen by the press.
He was getting his robes tailored. He was only partially dressed. This should have been a private affair, yet people came and went from his bedroom. Both men and women. People he didn't even know were entering and exiting his manor as if it were a free house!
"You've changed so little, Lord Osterious. You haven't aged a day since we worked the financial markets. You went on and made a fortune, worked side by side with the emperor, and now divinely chosen to bed the most beautiful – eligible, might I add – woman in all of Belshalara... and I...?" Lord Prylon stopped and chuckled. "Been wed and divorced three times and fathered five bratty, loud daughters! Hardly seems fair, does it?"
"You have done well for yourself, Lord Prylon. Being a father is an accomplishment in and of itself," Merris replied politely, quietly. He watched as the tailor removed a pin from his mouth and fixed it to his draping white sleeve.
"Yes. Yes. Five beautiful daughters. I would never give them up or change a thing. I mean that, you know, Osterious," Prylon said as he sipped his third glass of wine. "You should have daughters. Why haven't you married?" he wondered out loud.
Merris shot him an irritated glance. Prylon didn't seem to catch it as he blathered on and helped himself to a bowl of grapes on the table. "I've heard rumors, you know. About you and Shadowglade. It's in the papers. You sly devil you."
Merris said nothing as the tailor continued to work. The ceremony was now just hours away. Daylight was beginning to fade much too quickly for his taste. The grand feast was currently underway. He had absolutely no interest in attending. Even if he wanted to, he could not. He had to continue getting pampered, prodded, and preened. He loathed every second of it.
His bedroom was large and ostentatious. There was a table and chair in the corner where Lord Syreen Prylon helped himself to wine and fruit. There was a knot of journalists standing near his walk-in closet, discussing this and that while taking notes and photographs. They nosily prodded through his belongings and personal artifacts. They gaped at the paintings and marble statues. They asked questions about the history of his home and his contributions to charity and patronage to the art world.
Graciously, Merris answered all of their questions as the tailor worked on hemming his robe.
He could see himself in the tall oval standing mirror in the corner. The robe was too large and draped to his bare ankles. It was simple white linen. The robe's only decoration was subtle floral embroidery all over the fabric. The collar was cut low, showing the small scatter of dark hair on his chest. He knew why it needed to be loose and not form-fitting.
He didn't want to think about it.
"So what about it?" Prylon asked again. "Are you and Lillandyr…?"
Merris could tell that the journalists were listening. There was a possibility that they put him up to asking those sorts of questions. In fact, he was certain of it.
A hairdresser began combing his long black hair until it shined like spilled oil. He continued to stand awkwardly, his arms spread-eagle. He wished this would stop. Stop touching him. Stop prodding him. Stop badgering him, and stop snooping around his most intimate belongings. Like vultures.
He was lucky they didn't find any of his children. They didn't find his hidden temple and laboratory, and they didn't find Castalline. Thank the gods.
"Are we what?" Merris responded tersely, coolly. He could feel the room hold its breath. Everyone was eavesdropping, but pretending they were not. Even the tailor and hairdresser. "Lovers?"
Prylon was silent. But his saturated green eyes were transfixed on Merris. They were once colleagues, never friends. At best, he considered him to be a work mate or an acquaintance. Merris always found him particularly obnoxious, over-exuberant and familiar. He was sure that Prylon fancied they were "close friends" now. It annoyed him.
"No," Merris said in a near whisper. The room seemed to sigh in relief. "We are not lovers, we never were. Merely… friends."
"Hrm. The papers seem to allude otherwise," Prylon replied as he helped himself to some cashews.
The hairdresser moved on and began peppering his face with warm lather. It was pleasant, soothing. Merris stayed absolutely stone-still as she dragged a straight razor across his jaw, tightening and grooming his very symmetrical black cropped beard. He didn't dare reply until she wiped his face dry.
"But you two take tea together?" Prylon asked.
"We have," Merris said in a soft-spoken voice as he was finally able to lower his arms. They were sore from being outstretched so long, as if he were being crucified.
Prylon continued to press the subject. He wasn't giving up easily. Merris wondered how much he was being paid to act friendly and overly curious.
"But nothing… intimate between you two? You know, one article says she likes you. Finds you attractive." He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Has feelings for you."
"Yes. I've read that," Merris agreed, his voice barely audible.
Her words rang in his head again on a repeating loop. "You're not even a man, Merris." He sucked in a breath. "You make me sick. You always have." His heart sank and his chest stung like a heated knife sinking into his belly. He had to lay with her. In front of everyone. He felt as if he were going to vomit. He was about to walk under a guillotine.
"Hmm… you look a little pale," the hairdresser said to herself. Immediately, she dipped down into her basket and clicked open a case of loose powdered makeup.
"And what do you think?" Prylon asked as he watched from the corner table.
Merris shrugged and answered as casually as he could. "I – we… had a small argument. I've not seen her in some time. I hope she is well. I still consider her a friend. Nothing more. It was an inconsequential argument, not very interesting at all. She borrowed a book of mine, and failed to return it," he lied, trying to make it sound as boring as possible.
He wondered what Lillandyr was doing to prepare for the ceremony. He wondered what she was thinking and doing right at that moment. She was probably dreading it as much as he was. He wondered if she was smoking or drinking to the point of numbness. Maybe she wouldn't even be coherent throughout the process. Maybe she wouldn't feel or notice him. Perhaps he ought to do the same.
The thought was meant to make him feel better; instead he made himself feel worse.
But he couldn't smoke or drink. People were watching him, scrutinizing his every move. He was under a microscope. He could do nothing to make this easier.
The comment seemed to have worked. He was so dull in his answer that Prylon ceased asking questions. Merris was just an uninteresting, bookish man that lived alone and spoke too quietly.
He continued getting ready in blessed silence.
The hairdresser dusted some powder across his cheeks, nose, and forehead. She snapped several gold bangles on his wrists and ankles. Nothing too jangly or flashy, but there was a tinkling of bells when he walked.
She added the final adornment to his forehead. It was a teardrop-shaped ruby affixed between his eyes. She adjusted his hair, allowing it to fall loosely against his shoulders. He looked like a simple sacrifice to the god, and that's all he really was.
"Ready, Lord Osterious?" the hairdresser asked, appraising her work with a smile when she stepped back.
Merris passed a final glance in the mirror. To him, he looked like a priest from the deserts of Pith.
"Hm?" he asked as he dragged his attention away from his reflection. "Oh. Yes. I suppose I am as ready as I will ever be," he said as he stepped down from the stool. His bare feet felt chilled as they met the patterned carpet of his bedroom floor.
"Nervous?" she asked with a genuinely friendly smile. The tailor began to pack his things, throwing his tape measurer around his neck.
Yes, very, very nervous, Merris thought as his heart thundered wildly in his chest.
"No," he answered weakly.
"Hmm! Ha-ha, that's good!" said the friendly young hairdresser. "I'd be nervous if I were you."
He discovered that he had an entourage. Lord Prylon accompanied him, acting as his token best male friend. The journalists followed his every step as he walked down his hallway out of his bedroom.
Some attempted to snap photographs as he descended the grand staircase of his manor. Then there were the city guards, the royal guards, his hairdresser (who occasionally fussed with him) and the tailor. There were a dozen others he didn't even recognize and wasn't sure of their purpose, if they even had one other than to be seen with him.
He was shoved around and told what to do. They had him stand on the front steps of his manor for what seemed like hours as they captured formal photos of him in his costume. The journalists asked the same questions over and over and over again.
Finally, it was time. The event organizers, working under Vassiago's authority, told him he had to leave. Now. The grand finale was about to start, and he needed to take his place if they were going to remain on schedule.
The cluster around him opened the gates of his manor into a rushing crowd. He was overwhelmed by the sea of faces and the onslaught of noise. At first, he was afraid. Afraid that they hated him. Afraid that the crowd wanted to bum-rush him for who and what he was.
Slowly, he realized that they had no idea. They were presented with a fake portrait of him, and to them, he was a hero of some kind.
Merris was led out in a small parade down the winding path and through his yard. His property was turned into a sideline for spectators to throw flowers, cheer, and praise his name and the name of Baellith.
Before he could leave his estate, he was suddenly lifted off his feet. He nearly yelled in protest, but was quickly silenced when he was thrust into a wooden throne, carried by four bare-chested men.
The men's skins were slick with oil and they wore simple linen pants. They, too, were barefoot. Their noses and ears jingled with golden hoops. Somewhere along the line a crown of flowers was placed upon Merris' head. He hadn't been paying attention. His senses were overloaded. The air smelt sweetly of roasting honeyed meats, spiced, smoky drugs, gardens of flowers, and the sour stench of people.
For a while, Merris forgot all about what he was expected to do. He was paraded around, down one street and up another. He relaxed somewhat, and began to wave to the crowd. They continued to cheer and toss flowers at him and along his path, roses, lilies, bleeding hearts, and carnations. Streamers, flower petals, and confetti rained down on the city in a flickering shower. He enjoyed the moment, the sights and the sounds. They had made the city beautiful, covering the ugly burn scars that Castalline had made. He admired the artwork of the costumes and the effort that was put in to make a magnificent celebratory holiday.
But his joy was short-lived. They turned down the widest road in the Quarter, the main street. It was the gemstone of the Flesh Quarter, the marbled road that opened like a birth canal and lead straight to the Temple of Baellith.
He could see his doom staring down at him. It waited for him like a dragon with a wide open maw, and he was going to be carried in.
He tensed. The crowd around him began to blur in his vision like a wet smear. Their voices became a dull roar in his head. He felt his hands stiffen and his fingernails digging into the carved wooden throne. He was suddenly in a white, cold panic. Trumpets blared and drums throbbed.
Lillandyr wasn't there yet. She was going to be presented last. And then he saw the dreaded altar, brought out and affixed at the top of the stairs. That was to be their "bed." It was simple, white, stone, clean. It held a carved symbol of Baellith on the front. It was the same altar they used year after year, cleansed with fire and incense before and afterward.
If he had eaten, he would have vomited from nervousness. He was glad he didn't attend the feast, for it would have been lost all over the altar, making him out to be a bigger fool than he was already going to be.
He silently spoke to Venorith in his head. The angel of Venorith was hard to hear. There was too much noise. He wasn't even entirely sure if it was a servant of Venorith that was responding to him. He was too frightened; his emotions were in the way. He couldn't clear his head and focus. The communication channel felt clogged. There was nothing he or any god could do to remove him or save him from this embarrassing fate. It was pointless, and he stopped trying to beseech the god.
The servants carried him up the long, winding steps. Although the wide, split staircase up to the temple usually took several minutes to climb, it felt like just a few seconds. From the height, the crowd simply turned into a sea of shapes and splashes of color. Merris could clearly see banners and flags being waved in jubilation.
The crown of flowers was removed from his head. He was left standing alone beside the altar in front of the grand temple. He wasn't sure what to do. He awkwardly waved. Flowers and gifts were tossed and thrown onto the steps. Both the city and royal guards kept the people at a distance.
The dull roar began to swell. Music grew louder and louder until it exploded, rioting in the air. Lillandyr was coming. She was making her grand entrance.
She turned the corner onto the main road. Her approach was nothing like anyone had ever seen in years past.
She was riding on a gargantuan beast that he recognized was a rare creature found in the deserts of Pith. It made everything look and feel that much more overwhelming, surreal. It was all from a vivid dream, perhaps a nightmare. Everyone in the world of Caelus would see him perform the most intimate, personal act and judge him. He was inexperienced and incapable. He was inadequate. "You're not even a man, Merris," her voice said. And here, in front of everyone, he was expected to do the most masculine act.
It was his fault. He knew that. He had no one to blame but himself for this.
The beast's ears flapped heavily like the sails of a ship. Sunlight reflected off the creature's rainbow feathers.
The horned, feathered elephant blasted its trunk and sent the crowd into a frenzy of excitement. The beast announced her legendary, grandiose presence. They would be writing about her riding this pachyderm for years to come. It was this sort of gesture that made people adore her. He couldn't see yet Lillandyr on top of the mammoth. He didn't want to. She was several blocks away. There was little time left.
He felt his breath catch and his heart palpitate. The panic was slowly consuming him. The walls seemed smaller and were constricting around the corner of his eyes. He felt cold and hot simultaneously. He needed to leave, or he may collapse.
He turned and addressed whoever was closest to him. It was a priest of Baellith, off to the side.
"I… I would like a drink of water," Merris said, looking over his shoulder.
"Sir?" he asked in confusion. Or he may not have heard him. "There is no time, sir."
"She still needs to sacrifice the child, yes?" Merris whispered sharply.
The priest nodded.
"Let me use the facilities. Splash water on my face. I promise I will… I will be right back."
Merris left too quickly, not allowing the priest to argue, nor did he listen for the murmurings of the crowd. They were not paying attention to him anyway. Lillandyr had the spotlight.
He dashed into the temple. It was empty. His bare feet slapped against the smooth floor as he searched for the restroom.
The sink was a wide, copper basin. He twisted the knobs and splashed freezing water on his face, washing away the powdered makeup. Once gone, he looked like a pale, gaunt, frightened shell. The water, which tasted and smelt like wrought iron, didn't help his nausea. He dry-heaved into the sink, expunging globs of spit. His stomach muscles convulsed and squeezed. He was going to be sick.
"Venorith… Venorith, gods… damn you…" he hissed into the polished silver mirror. "Why won't you hear me…?" he pleaded, pressing his palm to the frozen reflection. He left a fading imprint of his hand when he peeled it away. He knew there was no point. He and Venorith already had this discussion. It was hopeless. Too many strings were pulled to get him what he wanted. And people always regret getting what they wished for.
He needed to pull himself together. He could get through this. Just don't look her in the face. Try to imagine… someone else. Castalline, maybe. Although the very idea of it made him feel more ill. With guilt. And regret, remorse. No. That didn't help. He loved Lillandyr and she wanted nothing to do with him. He made her sick. He always had. She said so to his face.
There was only one option left. He needed to take a big, deep, long breath and see this act, the humiliation and public embarrassment as a sacrifice to his gods. He needed to lower his head in piety and devotion. Soak in the degradation with detached acceptance and dignity. It was all he had left.
He felt himself calm, at peace with his fate. He was going to offer this to Venorith and Nehmain. Maybe they would accept it, maybe they wouldn't. He had some resolve and courage now.
He walked out of the bathroom and was immediately bombarded by the priest of Baellith.
"Oh, there you are, Lord Osterious, go, go, go!" the priest ushered him outside, back to the crowd.
Although the air was open and clear, it felt stifling to breathe. The bangles on his ankles jingled as the priest shooed him out of the front of the temple.
There was a scent of char, smoke, and meat in the air. He instantly recognized it as the scent of death and human flesh. The sacrifice must have taken place without him. Time had run out. He couldn't run. He couldn't hide.
He stood beside the altar with his head bowed and his hands clasped in front of him. Accept your fate with silent dread and poise, he thought to himself. He hadn't even looked at Lillandyr yet, but he could feel she was there, a few feet away.
"Merris," she said. Her voice in his mind, clear as a knelling church bell. She invaded his brain. She wasn't invited. He tried to slam it shut and silence her. He snapped his eyes accusingly to gaze on the woman for the first time.
She was beautiful in her costume; her hair was piled into twisted golden knots. Jewelry snaked up and down her arms and across her throat. Exotic, oily feathers fanned through her hair like a crown.
It was her tone that caught him most. It was pleading. She did not want to gloat or make fun of him. He was listening, though he didn't respond. What other lies was she going to dare to say to him?
"I want you," she said as she reached a hand out to his. Trembling, he offered his sweaty palm to her.
The crowd lapped it up. They cheered wildly in anticipation. He closed his eyes and tried to block them. He feared he may become nauseous again. He instead opened his mind to Lillandyr.
"I was so afraid. Afraid of feeling for you, but I'm not afraid now. I love you, Merris," she whispered in his mind.
Her cadence. Her tonality. She meant it. It wasn't what she said; it was how she said it. She sounded subdued. She was just as afraid as he was, wasn't she? This wasn't a joke to her as he feared it was. She wasn't reveling in her superiority. She wasn't mocking him or jeering. He didn't disgust her, which was what he feared most. He was a thing, but perhaps to her he was a person. That was all he wanted from anyone.
Gradually, he opened his eyes and looked at her. Heat and desire wafted through his gaze like a heady perfume. Perhaps they were the lord and lady of Pith, rulers of the desert sands standing before their kingdom. The rest was a mirage. It was a fantasy to make this all tolerable and for a moment it felt real.
He faltered at the thought. His throat rose and fell as he swallowed. He could feel his hand, tangled with hers, violently shake.
Blood was trickling from her nose. His brow contorted in worry.
"Please… please… please," she desperately begged before the communication snapped like a taut rope. He felt his hand tugged.
Merris glanced to the side and saw she was sinking to her knees and her head lulling to her chest. It was her magic. He wasn't the same sort of creature as she. Her magic didn't work on him, and he knew it caused her needling, burning pain in her skull. He blocked out the tidal wave of noise from the crowd as he released her hand and tried to help her to her feet. She looked like a submissive rag doll. He was certain that the crowd was interpreting this as something other than what it was.
It was none of their business. This was personal. They were jackals and hyenas. She was hurt, and needed help. He was the only one who could save her. He mopped his hand under her nose, smearing away the blood. He lifted her under the arms to hoist her onto the altar.
"Merris." She whispered his name, now that he was close enough to hear over the din of sound.
He dove in to kiss her. The crowd had become white noise, a rush of water in his ears as if they were standing on the precipice of an ocean and about to fall into unknown, black waters.
And that's exactly what it was. He was being washed clean of his sins. The wretched things she had said to him that had burned his very soul were now being extinguished by the cool wash of waves. Lust and passion licked him and soothed the scalding wounds.
Her hands slid into his robes. His skin was dry and warm. She touched his chest, and he was certain that she felt the mad percussion of his heart. He was terrified, but not of the public act. He was terrified that his bleeding, marred heart was open to her again, and she could so easily crush it.
He was reminded of the night they were alone in his drawing room. The night he kissed her, the one and only time he ever had. He remembered the taste of her lipstick and the wine on her breath. He recalled his hand brushing across her rounded, soft breast.
He pushed her on the altar. It wasn't forceful, but a gentle coaxing. He pulled her dress open to reveal her world. Only he could see. The crowd was too far away. Even in front of every eye in Caelus and the entire pantheon of gods in the stars, this was between them. This was his, his moment. He could be her lover. She could have his body. They could share and be intertwined before Baellith, and it did not matter. This was no sacrifice. This was meant to be. He did not regret his actions that led to this moment, and he was glad that Venorith made it happen. He was glad he did not retract. He made a small prayer to his gods, praising them for this moment of joy.
He was able to relax. He knew that no one else could see what he could see. Her expression, her longing. The feeling of friction and heat between them. The smell of her sex. It belonged to him.
He felt her tongue twist sweetly in his mouth. His hands rested on the curved dunes of her feminine hips.
She tore away from the kiss and snaked her tongue over his lips. She traced the shell of his ear and whispered to him. "Make love to me," she breathed, her voice syrup and velvet. He closed his eyes and sucked in a breath. "Take me. My darling. My love."
He felt an unexpected grab. She was touching him, holding his manhood firmly. He was suddenly made aware of just how aroused he was. He felt a flood of blood fill his face.
"Yes," he uttered quietly. "Lillandyr." The name was the lyrics to a heavenly hymn.
He pressed his fingertips between her breasts to ease her down further on the altar. She lay spread before him, a holy offering of what was primal and savage, an ancient dance between every man and woman.
He didn't even think about it. It all felt so natural, as if scripted. He knew what to do, when to do it, where to touch her. Sometimes gentle, sometimes rough. He stripped her of her robe by tearing it open to the side. It revealed the fleshy mounds of her sweet, supple breasts. As he slid himself into her, he suckled and pulled with his teeth. His eyes closed and the flutter of his soft, black lashes brushed against her skin.
He could hear her cries and the distant thunder of the crowd. She was widely displayed, her arms opened and her legs firmly coiled around his waist. He released her nipple to drink from the fountain of her mouth again, her tongue lifted to meet his.
The curtain of his spilling, black hair hid their faces to keep the kiss private. He looked into her eyes and saw only glistening desire and molten heat.
He wildly pistoned into her. She cried on every beat, sharp gasps and heady moans. He felt the stinging bite of her nails as she raked his arms. It occurred to him that this wasn't one-sided. She was enjoying it with passion and enthusiasm. She wasn't merely going through the motions. This wasn't a chore. The idea that she truly reciprocated the lust and devotion fueled him like kindling to fire. She writhed and squirmed under him in pure rapture and ardor.
Her lips glistened like candy apples when her tongue circled her mouth. He could feel her clench around him, squeezing and convulsing. Her groans were music and it was enough to send him into his release.
He saw sparks behind his eyes. His body throbbed, twitched, and spasmed as he emptied. He knew he exuded a long, low moan as it came to an end. His head rolled back and a huge exhale pushed out of his lungs. She milked his seed, bucking her hips wildly against him. He opened his eyes and looked at Lillandyr's rounded, pale face again. She sat up, propped on her elbows to peer at him. A lick of yellow hair tumbled in front of her face. She looked jostled, satisfied, and disheveled. He saw her slow, easy smile, as if in appreciation or approval of him, and then lowered her legs. She gripped his robe and tugged him for a final, flashy kiss before releasing him with a playful shove.
By the cacophony of cheers, Merris was lurched back into reality. He was made aware that he was onstage again, and not in his own world.
The offering to Baellith had been made. The atmosphere was strange and calm, despite the outpouring of cries from the people. Somehow, like a dull ache in the back of his mind, he knew that Baellith had accepted and was appeased. He felt wave after wave of release. He didn't fail, nor truly make a fool of himself. She didn't publicly humiliate nor spurn him. She didn't expose him as non-elf to her people, and he did not fail to perform. His worst fears were unfounded.
Although it had come to an end, he couldn't tell that it was over by the oppressive explosion in the crowd. It was deafeningly loud. He could scarcely hear his own thoughts. The feeling of ecstasy and relief was over too quickly. Once more, he felt exposed and broken open. With a realization he was exposed, he situated himself in his robes, as if an afterthought of self-consciousness and insecurity. He wasn't sure what he should do, or where he should be going. Did he do well? What was next?
The physical euphoria was swiftly dissolved and replaced by a feeling of dread. Was he to be cast aside now? Forgotten? Was it really all a show, an act?
His near-panic was silenced when Lillandyr slid off the altar and turned her back to cinch her robes. She grabbed his hand and pulled, leading him away at a swift pace.