Page 8 of Thief of Roses
“Then yes.”
He stepped from the shadows one clawed paw after another.
“My gods, you’re the Fir’Darl.”
The glass shard slipped from her hand and lay forgotten in the grass.She kissed her fist and put it to her breast.She closed her eyes, steeling herself for his approach.
He descended the stairs with deliberate pronounced steps, ensuring that she heard him with every thud on stone.The scent of fear swelled again with his approach, carrying him across the courtyard on a wave of rare delight.He halted only a few feet away from her.The fear and her scent tempted him to breach the distance and invade her space for the prospect of a sweeter experience, but he refrained, unwilling to terrify her more than could be helped.
When her breathing steadied, he braced himself and squared his shoulders in preparation for her reaction.Her eyes opened and she stared blankly at him for moments.Her face paled.Her throat constricted.She opened her mouth as if to say something but no sound came out.
She vomited.
He retreated to the shadows.
She trembled and heaved again, angling her body away from him.She wiped her mouth on the apron portion of her skirt.
“Thou hast seen.Dost thou agree to the bargayn?”
“What choice have I?”Her voice quavered.
“Notwithstanding, thou needest speak consente.”
She raised her head as high as she could and directed her gaze at the shadow.She took two deep breaths to steady herself.Her voice dripped with resentment.
“I agree, Fir’Darl.”
IV.
She spent the nextseveral days in much the same way she had before meeting the monstrous god of the Rivani, the Fir’Darl.She kept to the solar, the great hall, and the kitchens lest she cross paths with him.
What luck, she thought every hour.From the fumes to the fire, she thought every time she peeked around a corner to ensure his absence.Just what I needed, she thought whenever she considered the unnerving disparity of her environment, chaos and order, wealth and poverty, perfection and disrepair.What shit, she thought almost every moment as she picked up and cleaned the rooms around the solar.
Moments before she cut that awful rose, she considered staying at this delightful crossroads of magic and reality.Now this dreadful haunted fortress served as her prison and its eerie silence would drive her to the brink of insanity.She wanted to tear at her hair and shriek like a madwoman and spit in the face of the Fir’Darl.And she dared never do such a thing.
Food materialized on trays several times a day and pitchers of cold juice, heated cider, and spiced wine arrived regularly.After two additional days of idle cleaning, her heart no longer in the task now that it was done in fury instead of gratitude, she abandoned her small area of fortress.She resisted renewing her introduction with the Fir’Darl although she expected his disturbance every moment to inform her on how their lives would go.He spoke of a room and a bed, not that she disliked the solar, but she presumed he had more of a plan for her than this, or at least he had sounded like it.Perhaps he didn’t.Perhaps he improvised.Did a god improvise?Maybe that was what was wrong with the world — the gods had no idea what they were doing.
